


we might not be here (for much longer)

by schism



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Arkham Asylum, Gen, Identity Issues, M/M, Memories, Mutual Pining, Resurrection, Slow Burn, if this seems familiar that's because it probably is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-09-28 03:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Ed wasn't at the right place at the right time. Things spiral from there.Splits from show canon in early season two, around episode 4 or 5. Originally published from June to September 2017, now rewritten and republished.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi, all! it's been a long, long time. moreover, it's been a long time since i first wrote this story - i was rereading it myself the other day and thought, 'wow, i can do better than this,' so that's what i'm doing. _hopefully_ , anyway. c:
> 
> the current plan is to publish a rewritten chapter every other day or so, depending on how much free time i have, but i hope to have the whole thing done and back up by mid-january at the latest.
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!

_[…] while character makes men what they are, it's their actions and experiences that make them happy or the opposite._

– Aristotle, _Poetics_

_The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven._

– John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

_***_

_He’s floating._

_Or – more accurately – it seems like he’s floating._

_He isn’t really doing much of anything, or feeling anything, for that matter._

_It’s a curious lack of sensation, that disembodied but still aware existence._

_He thinks maybe there was something before this –_ might _have been something before this – but he can’t be sure._

_Time doesn’t seem to exist._

_Nothing does._

_He screams, or at least he thinks he screams, the taste of rust on his lips._

_He’s floating, all alone in the cloudy nothingness._

 

***

 

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Arkham Asylum can be a quiet place. In the dead of night, between the witching hours of one and five, when the cloudy haze that covers Gotham City like a blanket finds itself hiding starry skies and a silver moon, the halls of the historic institution are calm. For the most part, at least; in a city that never rests, never relents, there cannot exist absolute silence, and Arkham is nothing if not an extension of the city, a sickly limb stretched out in a cry for help that isn’t coming.

Arkham Asylum is where they stick the worst of the worst, and the ones they don’t want to think about. Sometimes those two categories barely touch, sometimes they overlap – more often than not, the point of convergence lies in the recently re-opened wing for the criminally insane. Or, more specifically, tonight it resides with the newest inmate of said wing, bearing the designation D-171.

He’s not responsible for the night’s disturbance, however, even though the night nurse keeps glaring through the window at him whenever she passes his cell on her rounds, accompanied by a ragged security guard. No, compared to his cellmate, inmate D-171 is the gold standard of obedience.

Said cellmate is short, with spiky black hair, and, most unusually, not wearing the customary striped jumpsuit of Arkham inmates. Instead, he’s sporting a tattered black suit, stained in glossy patches with what looks like oil in the dim light. Odd enough, he supposes, but accompanied by a futile albeit loud fit of rage directed towards the cold and unyielding cell door, the whole picture is downright peculiar.

For the past three hours or so of their shared existence, inmate D-171 has done a decent job at ignoring the shouts of the angry little man, but even he has his limits. Which is why, at quarter past three in the morning, he finally snaps.

“Will you stop,” he mumbles from where he’s seated on the floor, his back to the window, rolling his eyes. He tries not to think too much about where he’s sitting, deciding in favor of willful ignorance instead of wondering what bodily fluids might’ve been spilled there once upon a time. “They’re not going to let you out no matter how much you yell. It’s their _job_ to keep the _nutcases_ locked up.”

The smaller man turns to face him. “What did you say?” he asks, as if seeing his cellmate for the first time.

“Can you _please_ stop yelling,” inmate D-171 groans, irritation dripping off every word. “As if they’re not hearing the same shtick from everyone in this miserable place.”

The man stares at inmate D-171, dumbstruck.

The quiet is blissful at first, but eventually becomes uncomfortable, as all long silences are wont to become. “What?” inmate D-171 snaps when the weight of the other man’s scrutiny becomes unbearable.

The man shakes his head, as if in disbelief. “You can… you can hear me?” he asks, and inmate D-171 laughs, briefly, the sound reverberating and amplifying itself to fill the room with its echoes.

“At this point, there can’t be a soul in the asylum that _hasn’t_ heard you, what with all the shouting.”

“I… I’ve been here for days – I think, but it’s hard to tell – and no one has noticed me, much less responded. At least, no one before you,” the man replies, awkwardly leaning against the wall and finally – blissfully – taking a break from his Sisyphean labor.

“Have they fed you, at least?” inmate D-171 asks, a tinge of fear running down his spine. He’s heard all about Arkham and how the conditions within barely qualify as habitable – the fact that there’s only one bed in a cell confining two people comes to mind immediately – but he can handle it, he’s lived in far worse places than this. What he can’t handle, however, is starvation. And if they’re not feeding the inmates…

The other man shakes his head, irritated. “I already told you. No one else has responded to me. It’s as if I don’t even exist.” A pause. Then, “There’s only one bed in the cell, which you’ve probably noticed by now. They wouldn’t have put you in here too if they knew I was here – I should hope there’s a level of competence that even madhouse employees are required to have.”

Inmate D-171 doesn’t know what to think. “Well, if I can see y–” he pauses, finally getting a good look at the other man’s face. “Wait, I know you! You’re… you’re the Penguin! Mr. Cobblepot, right? I had no idea you were in here! Everyone thinks you just vanished into thin air. They’ve been looking for you for weeks. Mayor Galavan has made locating you a priority, although why exactly, I haven’t managed to figure out.”

The man – Mr. Cobblepot – blinks slowly. “That’s… yes, that’s who I am,” he says, although he doesn’t look too sure. “Galavan is… he’s the mayor now?”

Inmate D-171 nods. “He won the election by a landslide. Weeks ago, now.”

Mr. Cobblepot looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Are you okay?” inmate D-171 asks.

“I’m fine. You said… you said it’s been weeks?” Mr. Cobblepot says, pinching the bridge of his sharp, almost beak-like nose.

 _He really does look like a bird, just like they say_ , inmate D-171 thinks absently. He hadn’t really thought about it during their brief first meeting down at the police station, but as the minutes pass it’s more and more apparent how accurate the Penguin’s nickname truly is.

“Since the election or since your disappearance? ‘Yes’ is the answer to both, although the number of weeks differs, as far as I could tell,” he responds after a tense moment filled with the sound of the Penguin’s lurching footsteps as he paces the criminally short length of the cell. “I didn’t have time to look into it, what with my own arrest and all to deal with. They really weren’t happy with me down at the good old PD of GC.”

Mr. Cobblepot looks up, considering his cellmate properly before narrowing his eyes. “You look… familiar. Have we met before?”

Inmate D-171 grins, pleased as can be. _He remembers_. “Bingo. I used to work for the GCPD.”

“You’re the– you asked me a riddle,” Mr. Cobblepot says, and inmate D-171 feels his heart begin to flutter at the thought of being recognized by someone so influential, so _brilliant_ ,.

“ _What I want, the poor have, the rich need, and if you eat it, you'll die_ ,” he replies brightly, reciting the words with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I remember,” Mr. Cobblepot huffs. “And then you told me a completely unsolicited penguin fact, of all things.”

Inmate D-171 smiles at the memory, ignoring the hint of annoyance in Mr. Cobblepot’s voice. “Correct.”

“Your name was… What was it again? My memory is playing tricks on me these days,” Mr. Cobblepot says, a flutter of something akin to an apologetic note in his voice. At least, inmate D-171 chooses to take the vocal tremble as such.

“My name is Edward Nygma,” inmate D-171 smiles before leaning forward and adding a quick, “but please, call me Ed.”

Mr. Cobblepot is about to say something when the passing security guard gives the door a whack and tells Ed that if he doesn’t stop blabbering, she’ll have him restrained and sedated. For his part, Ed shuts his mouth and zips it, mimicking throwing something over his shoulder, ignoring the flash of rage deep beneath his ribs.

“Hey!” Mr. Cobblepot says loudly, waving at the security guard. “Right here!”

The security guard only squints at Ed and, curiously, pays no attention to Mr. Cobblepot, who’s staring at her with such intensity that she should be able to feel it. There is no way she _couldn’t_ have heard him speak.

Unless…

“I don’t think she can see me,” Mr. Cobblepot tells Ed, still looking at the security guard. “Or she’s an excellent actress. But I very much doubt that, considering this is where she works.”

Ed glances over and rubs his hand over his mouth.

Mr. Cobblepot rolls his eyes. “Your lips are sealed, sure.”

The security guard frowns, looking at Ed pensively for a moment, but, satisfied with being obeyed for once and with silence being restored, leaves without any further comment.

 

***

 

_He isn’t alone anymore._

_He has a name, a semblance of identity, a past._

_A present._

_Perhaps even a future._

_A young man with keen eyes and a spitfire mind is here, is with him, and it feels like a missing piece of the puzzle has slotted into place, like all of this might finally start to make sense; it’s electric, exciting, energizing._

_This was meant to be._

_However, there is also a sense of wrong about it, as if this isn’t the place nor the time they were supposed to meet._

_But he will take what he can get. A tendril of hope manages to break through the gray fog he finds himself in once dawn breaks over the asylum._

_He’s not completely sure who he is or who he used to be – yet._

_But he can feel himself remembering, growing stronger by every minute spent in the company of this new presence._

_He isn’t alone anymore._

 

***

 

Ed opens his eyes to see the gray wall of the cell and for a moment, he doesn’t recognize where he is or why he’s there.

Then, he remembers.

In the morning light, the events of the previous day and night feel more like a dream than a memory. Still drowsy with sleep, he can’t bring himself to believe that _this_ is where he’s ended up. In a way, he supposes he was his own undoing, letting himself be coaxed into paranoia only to get himself caught, but the thrill of the game he’d played is already starting to overshadow the sting of disappointment at being apprehended.

He’ll be smarter next time.

And there will undoubtedly _be_ a next time, although perhaps under different circumstances. He’s already lost the love of his life, after all – the likelihood of a repeat event is paper thin at best, partly thanks to his realization that if he’s to become who he’s so clearly meant to be, there can be no space for love. If the love of his life couldn’t accept him, who would? 

Ed rolls over to get out of bed – they’d agreed he should take it, considering Mr. Cobblepot didn’t want to sleep and Ed sorely needed to.

He is met with silence and an empty room.

Mr. Cobblepot is gone, then.

But gone where?

He would’ve heard the cell door opening – the grotesque metal contraption weighs at least a hundred pounds and crudely scrapes the floor when opened, which he’d noticed while being escorted to his cell the previous night – which means Mr. Cobblepot couldn’t have exited through there.

But he’s gone, nonetheless.

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

And yet, his cellmate has vanished into thin air.

Maybe the psychiatrists at his trial were right.

Maybe Ed _is_ insane.

But… he doesn’t _feel_ insane, is the thing. And his recollection of their conversation the night before is crystal clear: undoubtedly, there was someone in his cell last night, and that someone was Oswald Cobblepot. Who appears to have disappeared.

Ed muses over it until an orderly comes by to unlock the cell door and escort him to the mess hall for breakfast. He asks whether she knows where they relocated his cellmate only to be met with bafflement.

“What the hell are you talking about, inmate–” the orderly glances at the tag on his chest– “D-171?”

“The Penguin? Mr. Cobblepot? He was in here with me last night and now he’s gone,” Ed says, raising his brows. Internal communications can’t be _this_ bad in here, surely?

The orderly stares at him again before frowning. She mutters something under her breath that Ed doesn’t catch, which is probably for the best, and leads him through the maze-like corridors of the complex to start the day.

 

***

 

_The other man leaves – is taken away – for the day and the emptiness is back._

_Vaguely, he is aware of energy surges within the asylum – and, curiously, under it._

_There’s something there, something charged with power and for the first time in weeks, he feels something._

_Hunger._

 

***

 

Ed isn’t allowed back into his cell before evening has draped itself over the city.

He’s asked around about Mr. Cobblepot and been met with the same confused stares over and over, with no one seeming to be willing and/or capable of providing an answer. He’d been told he didn’t have a cellmate; that, if he wished, one could be appointed to him – an offer which he’d firmly declined. After a while, he’d figured it would be easier to drop the subject of Mr. Cobblepot altogether.

Still, the thought keeps nagging at him.

When the orderly escorting him back to the cell opens the door, however, Mr. Cobblepot is back, leaning against the wall opposite of Ed’s bed just like he’d done the previous night.

Ed looks pointedly to the blank-faced woman. “There,” he says, gesturing towards the man.

“What are you talking about,” she says flatly, not even pretending to pay attention.

“Mr. Cobblepot. He’s right there,” Ed replies sharply, his frustration beginning to build itself into a headache. “I can see him, clear as day.”

The man in question stares at the orderly, unblinking, and coughs pointedly. The sound is loud inside the small room, reverberating off the reinforced walls.

“There’s no one there, inmate,” the orderly says, and pushes Ed through the door, closing and locking it in a swift, practiced motion after him. “Calm yourself down or I’ll get the nurse.”

Ed waits until the orderly’s footsteps have faded away and groans as he flops down onto his bed. “And that’s my day for you. I asked around and everyone stared at me like I was insane. At this point, I think I’m starting to believe them.”

Mr. Cobblepot leans back against the wall and cocks his head. “You asked them about me?” he asks after a while.

“Of course,” Ed says, raising his head to narrow his eyes at the other. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No, not that. It’s just…” Mr. Cobblepot pauses, thinking. “It only confirms a possibility I’ve been considering for some time now. That is, if this isn’t all just an elaborate prank of some sort.”

“What possibility?” Ed asks, intrigued. Even an implausible explanation can be better than none – and he has more than a few possible explanations of his own to offer if need be.

“I’m dead,” Mr. Cobblepot says, almost managing to come off as nonchalant despite the slight whimper in his voice.

Ed sits up. “What do you mean?” he asks, although he suspects he already knows the answer.

“I don’t want to eat or sleep and I haven’t done so in a while. My memories are foggy. And look at the state of my clothes,” Mr. Cobblepot says, defeated. For his part, Ed looks: what had seemed like oil in the dim light of the courtyard lamps at night looks considerably redder now.

Oh dear.

“No matter how much I have yelled or howled, no one has heard me,” Mr. Cobblepot continues, “or maybe they have, but no one has seen me or done anything to help.”

Ed bites down the impulse to say _no one besides me_.

“Which is why I’m most likely dead, and if that is indeed the case, then I don’t know why I’m still here,” Mr. Cobblepot finishes, picking lint out of the lapels of his ruined suit as if it will make any difference.

“Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” Ed asks, threading his fingers together in his lap to try and hide the trembling of his hands. If what Mr. Cobblepot is saying is true…

Speaking of.

“I…” Mr. Cobblepot starts, then pauses, hesitant. “I’m not sure, there was a– oh god, my poor mother–“ He crumbles completely, burying his face in his hands, the authoritative set of his shoulders gone in an instant.

Ed pushes down the urge to reach out and tries his best to maintain a neutral expression, his mind whirring a mile a minute.

He’s a stranger. What comfort could he offer?

“What about her?” Ed asks instead, as gently as he’s capable of under the circumstances – which isn’t that much, really, but he hopes Mr. Cobblepot can appreciate the effort.

The man in question lifts his head and stares at him, pain and rage clouding his gaze. “She’s dead,” he says after a minute, the fight that was briefly there gone once more. “They killed her right in front of me. Galavan and his sister.”

Rationally, Ed understands that for most people, witnessing the murder of their parent would be devastating. He can’t say he shares the sentiment. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he offers, quietly, an idea starting to take shape in his mind and pushing aside the more esoteric questions the conversation has brought forward.

Perhaps there’s a way he _can_ help, after all. And who’s to say Mr. Cobblepot cannot help him in turn? Really, the more he thinks about it, it seems to be the most logical course of action available.

Mr. Cobblepot stares at him some more, eyes flashing with barely contained fury threatening to spill out.

The metal bars on the window tremble.

It’s… fascinating.

And absolutely terrifying.

“What did you say?” he asks, voice deceptively pleasant and steady.

If Ed was a lesser being, he’d be trembling with fear at the other’s feet, begging for mercy. But he is certain of himself, at least in this. “Perhaps it _is_ better this way,” he says, ignoring the grotesque movement of the window bars that grows louder with every passing second, “You see, I too loved someone, once. She was my girlfriend, see? But I killed her. Completely accidentally, of course–” he adds quickly before Mr. Cobblepot can say anything; he looks as if he’s about to come out with something snide and Ed does not want to hear it right now– “but unfortunately there was nothing I could do after the fact.

“And it took some time, but eventually I realized the truth: for some people, love can be a source of strength. But for me, and I think for you as well, it has always been and will always be a most crippling weakness.”

Mr. Cobblepot laughs humorlessly. “I think you’ll find yourself mistaken in this, _friend_ ,” he says, his tone venomous. “My mother was a pillar of strength and courage for me, the only person who truly cared about me and believed in me when no one else did, and now she’s gone. For good.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “As am I, if I truly am as dead as I suspect. I wouldn’t call _this_ a beneficial state of things.”

“We’re not so different, you and I,” Ed replies brightly, and Mr. Cobblepot looks at him as if he’s tempted to strangle him right there and then, the only thing stopping him the very likely possibility that he can’t touch Ed.

He _needs_ to understand, to see what Ed is trying to tell him. If only he would listen.

Ed waits.

The window bars stop moving.

“I fail to see how you’ve reached that conclusion,” Mr. Cobblepot says eventually, scrunching up his nose and lifting his chin defiantly as if reassuring himself he could have nothing in common with someone like Ed.

Which, honestly, would be hurtful in any other situation. But Ed understands hurt feelings well enough to not take it too personally, opting to try and provide some solace instead of shooting back something equally flippant. “As I said, I killed the only woman I’ve ever loved with my own bare hands and I don’t even remember doing it. And I felt horrible afterwards, but eventually I understood,” he pauses, partly for dramatic effect, partly to get the words just right in his head.

“I’d been set free. See, _nothing_ can hurt me now. No one can force my hand, or threaten me, or demand anything from me, because there is no _leverage_. I’ve got nothing that I love. And that, I think, is the perhaps the greatest strength possible.”

Mr. Cobblepot looks pensive. “What has that got to do with anything,” he says eventually, his brow furrowed.

Ed holds back a sigh of frustration, instead allowing a small, hopeful smile to tug the corners of his mouth upward. “You see, Mr. Cobblepot, when they took your mother from you – they took away the one thing that made you weak. Because you loved her, you would’ve done anything for her. I can’t help but think that’s why you died, if you _are_ dead.”

Mr. Cobblepot balks. “I don’t know why I died – or _if_ I am, in fact, dead. But… I suppose I see your point.”

For some reason, Ed didn’t expect that. Ignoring the small flare of excitement in his chest, Ed says, “I’m afraid I can’t help you with the first question, but the second should be simple enough to answer.”

Some part of his brain notes that, if his sense of time is correct, there’s perhaps fifteen minutes or so left before lights-out. Not that the presence of light matters in any way with regards to what he wants to do, but still.

“Do feel free to enlighten me, then,” Mr. Cobblepot says, bringing him back to the present.

“Touch me,” Ed says, and holds back a chuckle as Mr. Cobblepot’s mouth falls open in surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Touch me,” Ed repeats. “Shake my hand, high-five me, try to hit me, whatever you like. If you’re a ghost, chances are you won’t be able to make an impact, considering you won’t have physical mass if you truly are residual energy that has been somehow… misplaced. You shouldn’t be able to make physical contact, if that is indeed the case.”

Mr. Cobblepot stares at him for a good while.

Ed waits.

“Fair enough,” Mr. Cobblepot says eventually, and reaches out a hand.

Ed reaches out his own.

As he’d predicted, their fingers pass right through each other. There’s an interesting tingling sensation at the points of contact.

“Fascinating,” Ed says under his breath, wondering if Mr. Cobblepot can sense it, too.

 

***

 

_The other man talks a lot, far faster than anyone he’s ever met before, and he loves wordplay. Loves puns and puzzles and riddles and silly little rhymes._

_If he could feel anything, it might be endearing._

_Or perhaps annoying._

_Or, possibly, both._

_On top of the list of the words he’d use to describe himself with, “patient” has never been at the top, but– maybe he could be._

_At the very least, he’s willing to try._

_So, he sits and listens as the other excitedly blurts out quite possibly every thought he’s ever had, and, to his surprise, finds he doesn’t mind._

_It’s almost like friendship, something he’s never genuinely experienced before. And something he probably never will, considering his corpse is most likely lying in a ditch somewhere, undignified and forgotten._

_So much for all his aspirations and ambitions._

_More than anything, he wants to be able to leave this place, and to forget the electric warmth he’d felt when their fingers touched._

_He’s succeeding in neither._

 

***

 

The next day passes in much the same fashion as the last.

There’s hardly any point in asking further questions from the staff – if no one told him anything before, there’s no reason to keep pressing and make himself look more insane than he already seems; Ed would like to remain as un-medicated as possible, after all.

They do, unfortunately, give him two new pills after lunch. Some kind of anti-psychotics, he presumes, and briefly wonders if they’ll have any effect on his perception of Mr. Cobblepot before deciding it would be unlikely.

Once he is escorted back to his cell, he offers a minute nod in lieu of a greeting to Mr. Cobblepot, who is standing by the window this time, looking out into the courtyard. Neither speaks until the orderly has left, his footsteps echoing in the hallway before fading away completely.

Mr. Cobblepot speaks first. “How was your day?” he asks, turning around to face Ed, and for the first time in Ed’s life, the question is coming from some who appears genuinely interested in his answer.

“They gave me some new meds. Anti-psychotics, I’m guessing, because of what I said yesterday,” Ed replies, shrugging to try and save face as his heartbeat quickens. “Otherwise, it was fine. What about you, Mr. Cobblepot?”

“You may call me Oswald – I think we’ve reached that point in our acquaintance. But to answer your question – I suppose I just… exist, somewhere in-between during the day, neither here nor there. There seems to be a gray haze covering everything.”

Ed thinks for a moment.

“I wonder…” he muses, more to himself than out loud.

It’s a thin chance, and more than a little bit presumptuous of him, but perhaps…

“What?” Mr. Cobblepot – _Oswald_ – asks, leaning back against the windowsill. He doesn’t seem to like sitting down and Ed wonders if it’s because he still feels pain in his injured leg, or if he just thinks he does.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but… did anything _change_ once I got here?” Ed asks instead of voicing his train of thought.

Oswald purses his lips. “I’m not sure. I suppose things got a little bit clearer. Why?”

“It’s a silly idea but… I wonder if my presence is somehow affecting your energy,” Ed says after a moment. “Perhaps stabilizing it, somehow.”

Oswald takes a moment. After a while, he nods.

Ed beams.

“I can’t – I _won’t_ – stay here forever, though,” Oswald says after a moment of silence. “I refuse to spend my afterlife locked up in a six-by-ten cell. No offense.”

“I have no intention of staying in here any longer than I can help, either,” Ed replies curtly. “Which is why I already have a plan.”

Oswald waves his hand. _Speak, then_ , he seems to be saying.

Ed smiles. “We help each other get out.”

 

***

 

_He’s been alone for what feels like an eternity._

_Not only in the physical sense, either – both mentally and emotionally._

_He never had friends, he knows this for certain, never had anyone on his side who was there by choice and not circumstance, never had anyone who looked at him the way this man does._

_The little he can recall of his life before all this is hardly anything other than blood and pain and fear and anger, his whole life amounting to a self-righteous bid to make the world see him the way he saw himself._

_He was the king of Gotham for a few glorious moments, and all he got for it was a bullet to the chest and his mother dying in his arms._

_Ultimately, he was a failure._

_It’s foolish to think anything could be changed now, that he could bounce back from death itself, but there’s a spark of hope in the other man’s eyes and he can’t bring himself to snuff it out, no matter how much he might want to._

_Success could mean freedom – but there won’t be a victorious homecoming for him, unlike his new friend._

 

***

 

The big plan, as it stands, is simple enough.

First, they will figure out why Oswald remains where he should not.

Then, they will figure out how to undo whatever it is that binds him there.

And lastly, Ed will figure out an escape route and get out of the asylum, with or without Oswald’s help – depending on the second step’s success.

Getting himself out will be simple enough – Ed had noticed the ridiculously outdated ventilation system of the asylum a long time ago, and it would serve well as an escape route. So, he doesn’t really worry about that.

What he _does_ worry about are the first two steps.

He has no prior experience dealing with a haunting. For heaven’s sake, he didn’t believe in ghosts a week ago. Now he shares a cell with one in a lunatic asylum – and isn’t that a good punchline for the joke that his life seems to have become?

“How _did_ you end up here?” Oswald asks him the next evening, once they’ve shared the usual pleasantries.

“Well… Remember how I told you I killed my girlfriend?” Ed says slowly.

Oswald nods.

“She wasn’t exactly the only person I killed,” Ed continues, shrugging nonchalantly.

Oswald looks curious. “How many?” he asks, eyes trained on Ed’s.

“Three. Two of them I didn’t really care for, but–” Ed says, sharing a secret he’s never told, and lets himself bask in the light of Oswald’s attention just the slightest bit before continuing. “I only went on trial for two of them – Miss Kringle and a man who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to pin Dougherty’s disappearance on him; even if a few of the detectives he used to work with had voiced their suspicions while he was awaiting trial, nothing had come of it.

A shame, really – he might have been tried as a serial killer, if they’d had any evidence to back the claims. Might’ve made his trial a bit more interesting, possibly even changed the verdict: being legally insane was beneficial in the sense that he didn’t have to go to prison, even though Arkham was hardly any better.

In theory, at least.

Silence permeates the room as Ed mulls it over.

Oswald, for his part, is suspiciously quiet.

“How many for you?” Ed asks eventually, once the artificial lighting in the asylum courtyard is turned on and its soft, orange glow soothes the weak albeit harsh whiteness of the fluorescent light inside their cell. That the lights – and, by extension, the electrical system they require – remain functional in the run-down asylum continues to both surprise and astonish him.

Oswald looks away from the window, seemingly yanked out of his thoughts unexpectedly by the sound of Ed’s voice.

“A lot more than three, but I don’t know the exact number,” he says eventually and it doesn’t seem to bother him in the least that he doesn’t know, that he hasn’t kept count.

It’s both intriguing and jarring, the nonchalance with which he gives his answer – whether said nonchalance comes from nature or nurture, Ed doesn’t know. Instead of voicing the train of thought, he says, “I’m guessing most of them weren’t personal?”

Oswald shrugs. “Work mixed with personal, I suppose. Some because they were in my way, some because I wanted something that was theirs, others because they’d offended me.”

“Did it get any easier after a while?” Ed asks, trying his best to conceal any excitement from his voice. To hear Oswald speak of killing so candidly, in such a matter-of-fact way, it’s… Absurdly enchanting, is what it is.

Speaking of…

Oswald shrugs again. “Ever since I was a young man, I knew who I wanted to be in this city. I also knew it would be neither easy nor clean getting there. I suppose it hasn’t ever been difficult for me, knowing that any killing I do serves a purpose.” He pauses for a moment and adds, quieter this time, “Death in general usually does.”

Ed instinctively envies the honesty, the special kind of self-assurance present in Oswald’s tone. There’s so much he could learn from this man… if said man wasn’t dead and whatever remained of his essence – or soul, or whatever the case may be – was not confined to a cell in a lunatic asylum that Ed intended to escape as soon as possible.

What a shame.

Meanwhile, the lights are turned off and an orderly makes the first rounds of the night, checking on the inmates.

Ed waits until they’ve passed before speaking. “I wish there was a way you could show me the finer intricacies,” he says, settling in on the bed. “Mine were so… messy, spur-of-the-moment, with no elegance nor panache.

“Sometimes they’d bring in one of yours while I was still working at the precinct – at least I assumed they were yours. No evidence to back it up, of course, but there was always something about them, something _different_ ,” he continues, the words pouring out of him before he can stop himself. “A sense of personal touch, if you will. I envied that. Still do.”

He’s going to keep rambling if the silence goes on too long, he knows, but Oswald doesn’t look angry or frustrated. If anything, he looks as if he’s seeing Ed for the first time.

“You are just full of surprises, Edward Nygma,” Oswald says.

A small burst of warmth blooms beneath Ed’s ribcage.

 

 

***

 

_Surprisingly enough, being stuck doesn’t bother him as much as it used to._

_Sure, he’d rather he was free to roam as he pleased, but…_

_The company isn’t too bad, after all._

_Of course, said thought comes with many regrets – if only he were alive, if only this brilliant, calculative man had shown up and revealed himself just a little while earlier… things might’ve been different._

_But there’s nothing to be done with what-ifs._

_He floats along in the darkness, the sensation almost routine by now._

_But for the first time since what feels like forever, he dreams._

 

***

 

Ed is settling in nicely, the doctors tell him sometime during the second week of his stay. He’s getting along with the other inmates better than expected and, perhaps best of all in their book, not causing any trouble – discounting his rocky start, of course, but that is to be expected.

Ed nods and smiles as they say these things with clinical detachment and doesn’t reply that he’s behaving so purely out of necessity, because he wants to leave this place as soon as possible, to leave behind the filthy halls and the clammy rooms with moisture and mold battling for dominance in the corners.

In any other city, the building he’s in would have been condemned, deemed unfit for habitation, a long time ago.

In Gotham, they use it as an asylum.

In any case, though, being on good terms with the others confined within is something Ed can use to his advantage, partly because it alleviates the endless boredom of imprisonment, partly because he can use them to do his bidding once he’s figured out how they tick. Helzinger is the simplest of them all, and neither Norton nor Sharon prove to be any more of a challenge.

This place is just a puzzle to be figured out and he’s dying to solve it.

He’s only been in the asylum for a week, but it’s easy to tell that _something_ is going on, something that doesn’t seem right – something other than him sharing a cell with a dead man.

People get taken to therapy and come out different, suspiciously so. They’re calm, for one, almost passive in a way that seems unnatural – and given that quite a few of them were of the dangerous and unstable variety, people he’d mostly steered clear of if they didn’t do anything to concern him, it’s blatantly unsettling.

Completely by accident, he overhears Strange and Peabody discussing something very odd indeed while he’s trying to keep one of his new “friends” from stabbing him in the arm with a crayon for what feels like the hundredth time; Ed is going to have to have words with him again soon, it seems – his patience is wearing thin enough.

The duo pass by the playroom quickly, the soft murmur of their conversation barely audible. Ed doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s pretending to read, listening as intently as he can, strategically positioned so he can see the people passing by the fence separating the inmates from the staff.

“…highly unstable,” Peabody says, looking at her clipboard. “The results haven’t been promising, I’m afraid.”

“I’d rather not test the process on 113 before we’re absolutely certain the method works,” Strange replies. “Especially since our most useful subject appears to be… misplaced.”

They disappear down the hallway.

Fascinating.

As much as Ed knows, rationally, that he should focus on the inmates around him while he’s in their midst, the nagging feeling that _that_ , whatever it is, is important, doesn’t lift.

Strange and Peabody are hiding something – something big, by the sound of it, something significant and valuable, and Ed intends to find out what it is.

 

***

 

_He dreams of strange things, a mixture of memory and fantasy._

_He’s in the warehouse and his mother is dead in his arms._

_He’s standing up, his teeth bared._

_There’s a sharp pain just under his left collarbone._

_He’s running._

_He’s running._

_He’s running._

_A flash of bright light._

_Then, a forest, an abandoned trailer overgrown with ivy._

_His head spins as he breaks in, his blood soaking into his suit._

_There’s no time._

_He collapses on the floor._

_A part of him whispers to get up, to try and stop the bleeding._

_He remains where he is._

_He closes his eyes, just for a moment of rest._

_He will get up._

_He knows he must, knows there is a sequence of events that must play out, that_ this _cannot be his end._

_He’s…_

_just…_

_so…_

_tired…_

_…_

 

***

 

Ed is brought back to his cell about an hour before sundown.

Oswald isn’t there.

Once the orderly is out of earshot, Ed tentatively calls out, only to be met with silence.

There isn’t anything he can do except wait, which is what he does.

An hour passes. The lights outside the asylum are turned on.

Another hour. The light inside the cell is turned off.

A security guard makes the nightly rounds.

Ed is alone.

Eventually he drifts off, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

For the first time in a week, he dreams.

_He’s back in the forest with the remains of Miss Kringle. The scene plays out like he remembers it: setting out the picnic, digging the makeshift grave, the nosy man coming to snoop, Ed killing him for his trouble, breaking his shovel, going back to his car._

_He gets the handsaw, comes back and sees the picnic ruined – conflicting the sense of déjà vu._

_Is it?_

_A small trail of blood and disturbed foliage marks the route of the intruder._

_He follows it._

_Time passes; suddenly it’s dark and in front of him is a small mobile home, halfway reclaimed by nature. Soft, yellowish light spills from within._

_Ed makes to approach, loosely gripping the handsaw._

_The door bursts open and a small, hunched figure falls out, landing on his knees in front of Ed._

_Ed stumbles and falls back._

_The figure – a man – looks up._

Mr. Penguin? _Ed says, his voice distorting itself into something unfamiliar to him._

_The scene changes._

_He’s at home, setting a glass of water on a tray. On a whim, he adds a blue and white straw into the glass._

_Mr. Penguin is waking up._

_Ed tries to offer him the water._

_There’s a conversation – or maybe there are several. The words blend into each other until nothing remains but the emotion they invoke; Ed is excited, giddy, even._

_An opportunity of a lifetime._

_If only the other would see._

_The scene changes._

_He’s in Arkham now, in the visitation room he’s never gotten to see – or maybe he has._

_Hasn’t he?_

_Mr. Penguin – well, Oswald, as he keeps insisting – is seated across from him, a small gift-wrapped box set in front of him on the table. A soft light emanates from him, warm in the chilly gloom of the asylum._

_Ed opens the gift._

_It’s a puzzle box._

_He solves the puzzle box in twenty seconds, Oswald’s words buzzing in the air around them._

_There’s a heart in the box, pulsing and bloody._

_Oswald smiles._

_The scene changes._

_They’re in a dimly lit parlor – the windows are covered by heavy curtains, the lit fireplace giving off little light and less heat._

_Oswald is looking at the fire and talking, his words incomprehensible, glancing at him every now and then with affection in his eyes._

_Ed watches him, feels his mouth curve into a soft smile even though he doesn’t understand why, until he does._

_It feels like home._

_The scene changes._

_He’s standing in a lounge – saturated in silvery blue hues, filled with people._

_Oswald steps onto the stage and, somehow, Ed knows it’s because he’s going to make a speech._

_Everything after that is a blur._

_Suddenly, he’s on the stage as well, sprawled across the floor and Oswald is there, too, hands first on his shoulders and then cupping his face, tears not yet shed threatening to spill from his eyes, and he’s beaming._

_Ed grins back, a wave of relief washing over him._

_The scene changes._

_He’s back at the house, morning light filtering through the windows in the dining room, and Oswald stands in front of him, looking up at him as if he’s afraid, his mouth halfway open._

_He says something, eyes wide as if it is urgent, but suddenly it isn’t and there’s nothing but tar-like blackness pouring from his lips._

_Disappointment blooms in Ed’s chest._

_The scene changes._

_There is a woman, and she looks like Miss Kringle but not quite, her hair blonde and her eyes not covered by a pair of glasses._

_She says something to him, watches him like a canary, waits for his reply, coquettishly cocking her head before blushing and looking away._

_Ed doesn’t understand._

_The scene changes._

_The woman is dead._

_He knows she was important to him._

_He knows Oswald is the one that had her killed, uncaring enough to not even bother killing her himself._

_What Ed doesn’t know is how or, more importantly, why._

_The scene changes._

_They’re at the docks, him and Oswald, a gun in his hand and tears in Oswald’s eyes. Instead of words, bubbles spill from his mouth, murky and thick like mud._

_Ed points the gun and shoots._

_Oswald crumbles, pressing his hands to his stomach, blood and tar flowing through his fingers. The lapel of his suit shifts and there’s a black hole with scorched edges right where his heart should be._

_Ed pushes him into the bay and watches him sink, sees red blossoming like a rose in the murky water._

_The scene changes._

_He’s alone until he isn’t – Oswald, covered in mud and seawater and blood, stands before him, grinning like the cat that got the canary._

_Rage and grief cloud his vision._

_The scene changes._

_  
He’s in a giant birdcage, staring through the bars at Oswald._

_Oswald stares back, eyes both empty and full._

_There is anger, still, but there is also relief._

He’s alive _, Ed thinks._ He’s alive _._

_The scene changes._

_They’re back at the docks again, only this time it’s Oswald who has the gun._

_He doesn’t point it at Ed, holds it loosely as if it disgusts him._

_Ed blinks and they’ve switched places, the gun is back in his hand and he pulls the trigger once more, hands shaking and heart pounding._

_He doesn’t know why, anymore._

_The gun doesn’t go off._

_Oswald reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a handful of bullets, smiles at Ed like his heart is breaking._

_White noise comes out of his mouth when he opens it._

_The scene changes._

_He’s encased in ice._

_The cold is numbing, almost comforting._

_His heart is a piece of white-hot coal._

***

 

Ed wakes to the sound of humming.

His glasses are askew, and he corrects them, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose.

The sky is still dark outside, but in the glow of the artificial light spilling in from the window, he can see that he isn’t alone.

“Oswald?” he says, voice raspy with sleep. He doesn’t remember his dream: awareness of his surroundings brings a sense of loss, as if he’s missing a vital piece of information.

The dream was important – this much he knows.

The humming stops.

“Did I wake you?” Oswald says, not sounding particularly apologetic about it. He’s sitting down on the floor today, even though it can’t be comfortable.

Then, Ed remembers – it doesn’t matter whether it’s comfortable or not; he’s dead.

Can ghosts even feel discomfort?

He makes a mental note to ask later.

For now, though…

Ed sits up. “Where were you?”

Oswald leans back against the wall. “I don’t know. Not here.”

An answer and a non-answer, all in one. “Oh,” Ed replies, still groggy with sleep.

“Did you find out anything that might help us?” Oswald asks, and Ed can see he’s bracing himself as if he doesn’t expect there to be any good news.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Strange is hiding something, and I think that something is Indian Hill. If I’m not mistaken, and honestly, I rarely am, it’s been right here under our noses this entire time,” Ed replies, the thrill of uncovering a secret making him giddy and helping him sever the last threads of discomfort that still linger from his unremembered dream.

“You mean the energy surges under the asylum?” Oswald asks, and Ed’s smile drops.

“You knew,” he says, disappointment bleeding into his words.

“Not the specifics, but I’ve known there’s something below the asylum ever since arriving here, however that may have happened. I can feel it as we speak, thrumming along in the pit of the earth,” Oswald tells him, brow furrowed as if it hadn’t occurred to him before now that Ed couldn’t sense the world the same way he did. “Don’t you?”

Ed glares.

“That’s a no, then,” Oswald says. “I didn’t realize.”

Which is most likely as close to apologizing as he’s ever going to get; Ed supposes it will have to do for now. “Do you think it has anything to do with why you’re still here?” he asks, even though he’d rather nurse his wounded pride in silence. But there will be time for that later – what matters right now is getting out, solving the mystery of the asylum and signing off with a flourish, leaving this pit of despair and sickness behind for good.

Opposite him, Oswald shrugs. “It might, but it’s not like I can go there and check.”

Ed smiles.

“What is it?”

“I know someone who can.”

 

*****


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two, coming in hot. i should also mention that the story-line will remain more or less the same as it was originally written, i'm mostly addressing the stylistic aspects of the story as well as some consistency issues i appear to have had. 
> 
> cheers!

***

 

A new inmate is brought to the rec room – or the playpen, as Ed’s begun to refer to it – the next day.

The boy – because he doesn’t look a day over seventeen, might even be younger than that – stares at the older, louder inmates with wide eyes. The curious thing is he doesn’t seem to be afraid, as Ed had thought at first glance, but intrigued. He’s rail-thin and pale, almost sickly, but surprisingly steady on his feet as he walks towards the table Ed is sitting at.

He gets a good look at the boy’s face and remembers a major case the GCPD had had about a year and a half ago. Ed remembers the case file vividly – the father killed in a firefight with detectives Bullock and Gordon, the son left in a near-catatonic state thanks to a critical overdose of the cocktail of hormones tailored to overload the bilateral amygdala and, if what the report said was true, damage it enough to emulate the effects of Urbach-Wiethe disease on the area in order to render the subject unable to experience fear.

In short, if it really is the same kid, it’s been an awfully short time for this good a recovery.

The boy – his name is Jonathan Crane, Ed recalls – sits down at his table, eyeing the newspaper Ed is holding.

“Do you mind?” the boy says, and his voice is a hoarse, uneasy sound. He clears his throat.

Ed looks at him for a moment. The boy’s eyes are empty, his face blank and revealing no emotion. He’s seen plenty of people with post-traumatic stress disorder, but this? This is something different, something he’s never seen before – and by the virtue of its uniqueness, fascinating.

He hands over the newspaper.

“Thank you,” the boy says quietly, skimming the pages. He’s not dismissive, exactly, more like detached, as if everything going on around him is nothing more than a distraction.

At first, the focus with which the boy reads the newspaper appears admirable. But after five minutes, it starts to get unsettling; a scuffle breaks out at the far end of the room and the boy doesn’t even look up, focused on a column about a fancy new nightclub opening in the Diamond District.

Another five minutes pass by. The guards finally intervene in the fight and all associated parties are escorted out of the area before the boy finally finishes with the newspaper, folding it neatly and handing it back to Ed.

“Thanks again. They haven’t told me about the stuff that’s happened in the outside world while I’ve been here,” the boy says. “I’m not even sure what day of the week it is, much less the month or the date.”

Ed tries to smile. The best he can do is a mild twitch of lips. “There’s usually a day or two of delay with the newspapers.”

The boy huffs, a sound which might pass for laughter, but there’s no warmth neither in it nor in his eyes. “Helps detach the crazies from the rest of the world. Nice to meet you. I’m Jonathan Crane,” the boy says, reaching out his hand for Ed to shake.

“Ed Nygma,” is the answer as Ed shakes the boy’s – Jonathan’s – hand. The kid’s grip is firm, his hands cold and bony, almost skeletal.

There’s something unnerving about him, something Ed can’t quite put his finger on, and said something keeps the other inmates to the further end of the room like prey animals sensing the presence of a predator and huddling together for protection, however feeble it may be.

Jonathan could prove to be a useful ally.

If Ed can convince him to help, that is.

 

***

 

_He’s in Gotham, but it isn’t the Gotham he knows – the skyline is all wrong and the city is constrained by the bay far more sharply than he thinks he remembers it being._

_Or maybe it_ is _his Gotham._

_He doesn’t know._

_In his hands is a strange contraption of metal and wires, shaped into a question mark._

_He places it gently inside a metal cage and closes that with a press of a button._

_The question mark lights up, emerald green spilling from between the bars of the little cage._

_The Bat will never know what hit him._

_The scene changes._

_He’s in an interrogation room, his bruised hands cuffed to the table, his suit the same shade of green as… as something he doesn’t seem to remember, a wisp of an aberrant thought already halfway gone by the time it occurs to him._

_There are black question marks all over his clothes and on the backs of his hands, his split knuckles seeping blood into the makeshift bandages covering them._

_His right wrist aches._

_The sting becomes numbing, after a while._

_He looks up, into the standard one-way mirror on the wall opposite him. His eyes are empty, cuts and bruises blooming around his temples. His glasses are gone, replaced by a domino mask._

_He doesn’t recognize his own reflection._

_The scene changes._

_He stands before the doors of a massive building in the nicest neighborhood in town. Above the massive frosted glass and metal doors is an electric blue neon sign, spelling out words he can’t read but can understand, somehow._

_He knows this place is important._

_He enters, cautiously, and is almost killed for his trouble._

Is that any way to treat an old friend? _he says and the Penguin smiles at him, lowering his gun._

_The scene changes._

_He’s walking into a dive bar, a small felt box in his chest pocket._

_It’s heavy against his heart._

_He takes a seat and waves over the bartender, orders a bottle of the cheapest whiskey they have._

_He must make a ridiculous picture in his expensive suit and bruised face, drinking alone in a dive bar in the skeeviest part of town._

_It seems only fitting._

_His life is a joke._

_The scene changes._

_He’s sitting on a comfortable sofa in a dimly lit parlor, the windows covered by heavy drapes, the stone fireplace alight and comforting in the damp cold of the house._

_The place feels familiar, as if he’s been there many times before, almost like… home?_

_His throat is sore. He touches it, fingers meeting bruised skin._

_Oswald enters the room, carrying a small cup._

_He can hear the liquid within slosh softly against the sides with every unbalanced step._

_Oswald sets the cup down in front of him on the coffee table and sits next to him, eyes wide and expectant. He says something, the words muddy and unclear._

_His own reply is unintelligible, but he thinks he knows the gist of what he’s saying._

_Oswald looks at him as if he’s hung the moon and the stars in the sky, and he would do anything to keep that look on the other’s face._

_Nothing matters more._

Ed wakes up. Fragments of his dreams float around him, already halfway to being forgotten.

The sky is getting lighter outside, nearing dawn, sparse rays of light illuminating the metal door of the cell on the wall opposite the window. He looks at the door for a few minutes, silently contemplating.

Then, he gets an idea.

Ed calls out for Oswald.

He blinks, and the other is there, as if he’s been there all along, just out of sight.

“It’s almost morning,” Ed says, and Oswald scoffs.

“I can see that. What is it?”

“When is a door not a door?”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “When it’s ajar. What about it?”

“I’m not particularly familiar with occult lore, but I’d imagine there’s a reason iron is frequently cited as a deterrent. The doors in a building this old contain a decent amount of iron, which might be preventing you from leaving the cell. So, I figure, if you try to slip out while the door is open, you might be able to do so.”

“It’s worth a shot, I suppose,” Oswald says with a shrug. “Although I find it hard to believe the solution to my… _mobility issue_ could be this simple.”

Ed smiles. “The solution requiring the least amount of assumptions to work is typically the most appropriate one.”

“I think you’ll find common sense has little power in my situation,” Oswald replies, and Ed laughs softly.

“I think that what is considered magic is nothing but science we can’t comprehend yet, even if a healthy amount of skepticism is best applied to both.”

Oswald rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree.

They wait for the morning together, watching the light break and the day begin as it always does without fail, the asylum around them waking up along with the rest of the world. It’s quiet, pleasant even, the stillness of Arkham in the early morning, deceptive in its soft security. The place seems harmless in the early hours, shreds of hope still clinging to its walls and inhabitants, all to be smothered as the day progresses.

As is routine by now, an orderly comes by to escort Ed out of the cell – and into his morning therapy session, which means it’s probably Thursday.

Ed stores the information away for later, not that it matters much, and gives a minute nod to Oswald.

Oswald nods back. “Three. Two. One.”

The door opens.

Oswald slips out before the orderly manages to step in, moving faster than Ed’s ever seen him.

Ed fights the urge to grin. He was right about the door; the plan can proceed easier from here on out since it seems he won’t have to do everything by himself after all. Granted, he’s formidable and capable enough on his own – as he needs to be, by now – but it’s nice to know that for once, he doesn’t have to go it alone.

As they pass through the corridors of the asylum, Oswald seems happier and lighter than Ed has ever seen him, practically glowing.

“I thought I could sense things in the cell, but everything is amplified out here,” he tells Ed with a smile. “This whole building is vibrating with energy.”

Not exactly an interpretation Ed would’ve gone with, but he can’t exactly argue or reply, considering the third person alongside them as well as his lack of extrasensory perception for whatever energy Oswald is detecting.

So, he just smiles in response, allows for a tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth as the boorish orderly shuffles him along.

It seems to be enough.

 

***

 

Oswald waits for him outside the psychologist’s cabinet.

“I couldn’t really explore,” he tells Ed, as if anticipating the question Ed would ask, were they alone. “Everything gets muddled if I wander too far, it seems.”

It could be a notion worth investigating, if only Ed had the liberty of coming and going as he pleased. But things being as they are, the idea must be set aside for further examination sometime later.

The grumpy orderly leads Ed, and by extension, Oswald, to the mostly-empty playpen. Thursday is group therapy day for roughly half the inmates, which means besides Ed, there’s only three others present – two of them he doesn’t know and hasn’t attempted to befriend, both too unhinged and unreliable to be of any use. The third, thankfully, is Jonathan.

The boy is sitting at a table at the far end of the room next to the window, his back to the wall, facing the fence separating the area from the corridor, although he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to the view in front of him, nor to the other two inmates, completely engrossed in the book he’s reading.

The orderly opens the gate and Oswald slips inside before Ed can signal for him to do so.

Jonathan looks up as Ed enters and the orderly closes the gate behind him.

“Is that him?” Oswald asks and Ed nods, the motion minute, before giving a slightly bigger nod as a greeting to the boy.

Jonathan gives a little wave in return before getting back to his book.

Ed grabs a few clean sheets of paper from the counters in front of the fence before making his way to the table closest to the gate and furthest from the other inmates, his back to them so they can’t see his mouth moving if he needs to speak, even though it’s hardly likely any of them would care.

Oswald sits down opposite of him, his back to the wall with a clear view of the room, keeping an eye on the inmates at the far end as well as the gate, and once again, Ed is hit with a pang of regret.

If only they’d properly met sooner…

They could’ve been unstoppable, working together to bring the city to its knees, equals in all the ways that matter. The idea seems like a wisp of some forgotten dream, something deep within his chest telling him it’s not too late to go and chase it, to claim a future that is rightfully his, rightfully _theirs_.

But it can’t be anything but a pipe dream, a baseless fantasy that will do more harm than good to him in the long run. Getting stuck in the past is what got him caught the first time, and Ed isn’t keen to make the same mistake twice.

He folds and unfolds the paper in his hands absently, lost in thought, muscle memory taking over.

“What are you doing?” Oswald asks, and Ed starts, having forgotten himself.

“I was thinking,” he whispers and Oswald scoffs.

“I can see that. What is it?”

“I wish circumstances were different,” Ed confesses, trying to convey as much of his regret and displeasure as he can while keeping his voice low and his face blank. Just because there only seems to be one camera in the playpen, on the wall behind him – which is why he favors the seat he’s currently in – there is no guarantee there aren’t more that he just hasn’t noticed yet.

Unfortunately, it seems Oswald doesn’t catch the underlying meaning of his words.

“We’ll get out of here,” he says, and Ed nods.

There has never been any doubt about that.

He folds the piece of paper a few more times and reveals his creation, a small paper penguin.

If Oswald’s smile turns a little watery soon after it appears, neither mention it.

 

***

 

“Hold on. You’re saying there’s a secret compound, underneath the asylum, called Indian Hill? Where they’re experimenting on people?” Jonathan asks, keeping his voice down and crossing his arms in front of his chest as if to shield himself. It seems less like a natural response and more like a studied or perhaps half-remembered one, as his voice bears little emotion aside from a tinge of curiosity.

It’s been an hour or so since lunch and the playpen is now full of people, most of whom actively avoid the table that the trio – well, perceivably the duo – are sitting at. Whether it’s because they’re uncomfortable being around Jonathan, or because they can somehow sense Oswald’s presence, Ed isn’t completely sure. Not that he cares, really; it’s best for everyone involved that the others keep their distance.

Ed nods in answer to the boy’s question.

“And you want to break in? Why?”

“I have my reasons,” Ed says, not particularly keen to elaborate. He likes Jonathan, yes, but to trust someone he met in an asylum would be suicide at worst and unwise at best. Well, aside from Oswald, of course.

There’s also the fact that he doesn’t really have a logical answer to the question at hand – but that is inconsequential, considering the circumstances.

Oswald taps his fingers impatiently on the table. “Ask him if he’s going to help or not. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Ed glances at him, mildly annoyed – he was getting to it, for heaven’s sake – but does as asked.

Jonathan huffs. “Sure, I’ll help. But what I still don’t understand is why you want to do this. What’s in it for you?”

Ed is tired, every new morning greeted in the asylum seeming to leech more and more energy from his very bones. Which is partly why he snaps. “What does it matter to you? Scared?” he childishly hisses at Jonathan, who doesn’t seem fazed in the least.

If anything, the kid looks amused.

Oswald is quiet beside Ed.

After a moment, Jonathan shrugs. “I don’t care, you can do whatever you like. I’m just curious, especially since you’re asking me to put my neck on the proverbial chopping block for you. And, honestly, I should be asking you the same question. Are _you_ scared?”

More than anything, Ed wants to laugh. He could say, _constantly_. He could say, _only of the future_. He could say, _only of uncertainty_. He could say, _less than you’d think_.

He looks the kid in the eyes and sees nothing – no emotion, no fear, hardly any shred of humanity. With a start, Ed realizes he can pinpoint why exactly most of the other inmates are so uncomfortable around Jonathan – his eyes are devoid of life. It’s almost comical that Oswald, even though _he’s_ technically the dead one, has eyes that are a thousand times livelier.

“I’m afraid when I need to be,” Ed says eventually.

Jonathan smiles. “Keep telling yourself that. Fear is the driving force behind everything humanity has done and will ever do. Find the reasoning behind any action and you will find fear to be the primary instigator. After all, we're all standing at the edge of the abyss, paralyzed by fear. It’s the only thing standing between us and diving in.”

“What a strange boy,” Oswald says, voicing exactly what Ed has been thinking.

Ed nods in agreement, and Jonathan seems to take it as if it was directed to him, ignorant of a third presence in their conversation.

Ed lets him.

“Will you help, then?” he asks again.

Jonathan shrugs. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

Fair enough.

 

***

 

“Why _are_ you helping me?” Oswald asks later that night, voice quiet even though they’ve ascertained that only Ed can hear him speak. “You could easily get out of here without helping me. Why are you still here?”

Ed recalls the conversation with Jonathan from earlier and his lack of a satisfactory answer to a similar question.

“Must I have a reason? Maybe I just want to help,” he counters, keeping his voice down. The walls have ears in this place, and Ed isn’t too keen to be overheard talking to what would seem to the outside observer as an empty room; there’s been too many close calls as it is.

“Nobody ever does anything for no reason,” Oswald says, refusing to meet Ed’s eyes. “I can’t expect you to be any different. And, no offense, but I doubt you’re an altruistic person.”

_I’m doing this because you make me want to be something other than alone._

The thought hits Ed like a shot out of the dark, and he wants to share the revelation but also to soften its edges, to turn a vulnerable confession to a person he’s known for about a week and a half into something more palatable and reasonable, as obfuscating as it may be.

“I’m helping you because I _want_ to,” he says instead, the words slipping out before he takes the time to consider them – he’s not lying, not exactly, but he isn’t telling the truth, either.

Although, it doesn’t seem to matter, because the harsh set of Oswald’s jaw slackens as his expression is taken over by surprise – as if he truly couldn’t imagine anyone would be on his side by their own choice. Perhaps the circumstances of their meeting were out of their control, yes, but everything that’s happened since…

_I am more precious than gold, but I cannot be bought, can never be sold, only earned if I am sought; if I’m broken, I can still be mended, at birth I cannot start nor by death am I ended._

It's more than Ed could’ve ever dreamed, all thanks to a set of actions he’d repeat in a heartbeat if only for _this_.

The only thing sullying his enjoyment is the fact the best friend he’s ever had is a dead man. Quite literally.

And a dead man who seems to have disappeared without a word between two blinks.

Ed calls out for him.

There’s no reply.

He calls out again, unease seeping into his voice.

Nothing.

The lights outside the cell window flicker, casting strange shadows on the wall. The night outside is dark and overcast, as is the norm in the city, an inky mass of clouds covering the ghostly light shed by the moon and stars far, far above.

Ed blinks, and Oswald is back, looking about as confused as Ed is feeling.

“What happened?” Ed asks, but Oswald just stares at him, eyes wide and… frightened?

Ed stares back, raising his eyebrows. “Oswald?”

“I… I don’t know,” Oswald says and he’s shaking, small tremors rippling over him like waves on water. “I was here one moment and the next I wasn’t.”

An answer and a non-answer yet again.

If anything, Ed is now even more confused than he was before asking the question. “What does that even mean? Where did you go?”

Shaking off whatever happened, Oswald lifts his chin defiantly in response. “I can’t explain it any better than you could, I’m afraid. I don’t _know_ what that was. Can we drop the subject?” he says, tone clipped and deceptively calm.

Ed might have bought into the act if he hadn’t seen the way the other’s hands were trembling. As it is, Oswald follows his gaze and pointedly crosses his arms.

Something is definitely wrong; Ed just doesn’t know what, yet.

Oswald flickers out again.

This time, Ed doesn’t call out, simply waits, figuring the other will most likely return if and when he wants to.

He gives up after an hour of silence, tentatively calling out once, just in case. When there’s still no reply, he decides to sleep.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

 

***

 

Ed wakes up, still alone.

There’s a twinge somewhere behind his ribs and a nagging feeling that something has gone very, very wrong.

He calls out and still there’s no reply.

Not that he expected one; it seems he’s on his own once again, and this time for good.

It’s, unsurprisingly, mind-numbingly boring.

He goes through the motions of the day, not particularly interested in anything, not even in the plan to break into Indian Hill – he will do it, knows he can’t leave well enough alone, but his previous enthusiasm is dwindling by the minute.

He exchanges a few words with Jonathan during lunch, tells the kid to create a distraction a few minutes after he leaves to keep the staff’s attention occupied while Ed is gone; the method and execution of said distraction falls entirely into Jonathan’s hands.

He’s already arranged for the retrieval of a select few items he needs to find the entrance, and after getting them, there’s nothing to do other than wait.

Opportunity arrives with the two guards who come by to fetch another one of the inmates from the playpen. Ed positions himself as close to the gate as he can without arousing suspicion, keeping his eyes trained on the copy of _Gotham Gazette_ in his hands – some drivel about a new threat to the public, already dubbed “Mr. Freeze” by who he assumes to be journalists vying for the employee of the month badge and a pat on the back for a story well covered.

It’s hardly an imaginative moniker for a criminal who _freezes_ people, in Ed’s humble opinion, but who is he to judge.

Meanwhile, the guards drag the inmate along through the gate and let it slip shut behind them. Or, they think they do, but Ed is quick enough with his newspaper to stop the lock from clicking into place.

He waits for a minute or so, enough for the trio to continue down the corridor far enough for him to escape their attention but still manage to keep up. He gives the signal to Jonathan and starts the countdown as he slips out of the playpen and follows the guards.

Ed has prepared himself for the potential of following someone who is simply being accompanied to a therapy session, but all available evidence suggests they are indeed on the way to somewhere else: the guards take a winding path down the hallways, most likely intended to disorient and throw off the inmate they have with them – if Ed’s mental map of the asylum is correct, and he has no reason to believe it isn’t, they’re slowly advancing towards their destination, albeit doubling back every now and then.

Whatever else it is, it’s highly suspicious – for the first time during the day, Ed’s curiosity is well and truly piqued once they finally leave the long-term containment wing and enter the section tying together the administrative wing with the in-house treatment wards. 

His vague enthusiasm for the mystery of it all is briefly curbed by the three men turning down what he thinks is another hallway, and after carefully peeking around the corner, stepping out only to find a dead end.

This is the place, then.

His only trouble now is finding the concealed entrance – and fast. Whatever Jonathan is doing as a distraction won’t hold the attention of the staff for long, and he’s already spent almost fifteen minutes wandering through the hallways and following the guards to get here.

He goes over the walls inch by inch, losing another five minutes in the process before finally finding something promising. He presses the small panel and it pops open, revealing a surprisingly new-looking lock. It’s easy enough to pick open, especially with the hair pin he swiped from one of the nurses a few days prior.

There’s a rumble somewhere behind the wall and a large panel slides open to reveal an old-fashioned elevator.

Despite his sour mood, Ed smiles.

Seems like whatever secret is hidden within the asylum, be it Indian Hill or not, it’s underground – just as they’d suspected.

Said thought brings with it a sense of loss; what good is uncovering a huge secret if there’s no one to share it with? He used to think he liked being alone, liked being the only one smart enough to see things others couldn’t, thrived on it, even, but now that he knows what it’s like to have someone around who understands him, it’s far lonelier than he remembers.

The gate opens.

Ed steps into the elevator and pushes the crank to the lowest it can go.

There’s a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, but it disappears just as he turns to have a proper look.

The cage rattles shut as the elevator starts its journey downward.

 

***

 

_The first thing he hears when he regains consciousness is screaming._

_Someone – or something – is roaring somewhere nearby, the sound creating a relentless throbbing in his head._

_He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there._

_Flashes of something important, something forgotten, lurk just out of reach behind his eyelids. There are people, many of them, some dead, some living, all staring at him as if he has answers to questions that haven’t been asked._

_Slowly, he opens his eyes, trying to ignore the painful brightness of the fluorescent lights._

_He’s in a hospital room – or somewhere that might conceivably look like one, were it not for the heavily reinforced door and the complete lack of freely movable items._

_He tries to sit up, but before he can manage, the door opens and a stocky woman in a smart outfit steps inside. She walks briskly to his bedside, puts a hand on his chest and pushes him, albeit gently, stopping him from moving._

_He glares at her and she removes her hand, although he’s sure she knows he isn’t in any position to do more than glower._

_She asks questions, about whether he can tell her what year it is (he can’t) and how many fingers is she holding up (three) and whether he knows what his name is (no) or what happened to him (no), takes notes of his answers on the chart she has brought into the room with her._

_By the time she finally stops interrogating him, his throat is sore and he’s completely drained, the result of a combined effort from trying to figure out what she wants from him and fighting the urge to take out his anger and frustration on her while at her mercy, his heartbeat quickening and blood flushing to his cheeks._

_The woman seems disappointed, tells him to not cause any trouble (as if he could, in his current state), and leaves, locking the door behind her. With that, he’s alone again, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what happened to him, what is currently happening and what is yet to come._

_None of the possibilities he can come up with are particularly comforting._

_The uncertainty of his surroundings and of his own identity does nothing to help his already sour mood._

_The lights flicker. Shadows dance in the corners of the room._

_Somehow, it does not feel unsettling in the least, as if some subconscious part of him remembers having seen and experienced far more terrifying things than a couple of faulty electrical wires. He finds himself thinking that because the room he’s in seems sleek and modern, it should thus not be subject to the power fluctuations that plague the rest of the city._

_He’s not sure how he knows that, or why the voice that thought had in his head sounded nothing like what he has so far heard of his own, but his whole body is sore and achy and he’s so, so tired._

_The thought brings with it flashes of something forgotten, the woods and light and cold and pain._

_He closes his eyes and tries to sleep._

 

***

 

The elevator reaches its destination and Ed needs to take a moment to steady himself, his breathing labored and heavy, the shock of his discovery starting to settle in.

It _is_ Indian Hill, the insignia on the wall opposite the elevator crushing the last remnants of any doubt he had left. The fabled secret compound _does_ indeed exist, it seems, and if the snarls and howls coming from down the hall are to be believed, there’s nothing good going on.

The lights flicker, casting strange shadows on the walls.

The howls from down the hall turn to whimpers before ceasing completely.

Ed has yet to see what exactly he’s dealing with, but he can already feel nausea setting in. The only thing fueling him through the unease is a morbid fascination, a nagging thought in the back of his mind that tells him he needs to _know_ , that he can’t just leave – no matter how much he might want to – before solving the mystery.

So, Ed wipes his hands dry on his jumpsuit, adjusts his glasses, opens the gate, and cautiously steps out of the elevator.

He walks slowly down the hall, listening for any footsteps or noises that might indicate he’s not alone in the corridor, and the numbers labelling the thick metal doors lining the hallway catch his eye.

 _AA367_ , _AA366, AA365_ …

The letters pertaining to the location, the numbers to individual subjects confined within, if the feral noises he heard before are anything to go by.

He reaches the end of the hallway and is faced with the decision of which way to go next.

Left or right?

Or back the way he came, upstairs and back to the playpen to pretend nothing happened?

He stays still, weighs his options for a moment, uneasy about wandering blindly deeper into the compound, and remembers the conversation he overheard that had sparked his interest in the innermost workings of the asylum in the first place, the brief exchange between Hugo Strange and Ms. Peabody.

_Results…_

_Rather not test…_

_113…_

Could it be that 113 might in fact not be a device or a chemical as Ed had initially thought, but rather a… test subject?

Whatever it is, it must be down here somewhere, hidden in the bowels of the complex if the declining numerical order of the designations on the doors is to be believed – close enough to be almost within his grasp and yet untouchable. For now, at least.

Curiosity eventually overrides the instinct of self-preservation instinct and Ed heads down the left branch of the hallway.

With each step, his resolve strengthens: he won’t leave Indian Hill before he has found 113, whatever – or whoever – that may be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen... i love drama. that is all.
> 
>  
> 
> cheers!

Indian Hill is a lot bigger than Ed had thought it would be.

The quiet has dissipated, bringing forth an array of sounds in its wake, which are part of the reason he doesn’t want to look in the cells.

If he keeps his eyes trained on the way in front of him and only occasionally glances back to make sure he’s not being followed – even though being left alone seems implausible at best, and he knows he’ll pay the price for trespassing when he’s inevitably found out – it’s easier to pretend that everything is fine and that he’s _not_ terrified out of his mind. If he acknowledges the existence of the noises, then by extension, he must acknowledge the existence of whoever makes said noises, but he knows that even this is only temporary reprieve – his curiosity will, after all, get the best of him.

The halls are dimly lit, especially for a complex specializing in the containment of test subjects, as it seems, and it wouldn’t be irrational to assume that many, if not all, of them have been brought in without their consent – he can’t imagine that the thing with reptilian skin, saliva dripping from its open jaws as it roars and thrashes against its restraints, nor the woman who might just look normal if not for the cold, icy gleam of her eyes and her semi-translucent skin who wails and wails and begs him to help her… he can’t imagine that either of them are here of their own volition.

Still, despite that, he knows that the test subjects confined in the cells are most likely a danger to anyone who walks in these halls, never mind if friend or foe.

Briefly, he wonders if any of them can even tell the difference.

As he dwells deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine hallways, containment cells seem to be fewer and further from each other than they wear nearer to the elevator. The numeration, however, continues in declining order, and after five minutes of walking, his estimation tells him he should be nearing the cells containing subjects designated with numbers in the low hundreds soon enough.

Indian Hill is just one big puzzle, and he’s great at puzzles; it’ll be no time at all before he solves this one just like he’s solved all the others.

The flash of satisfaction the thought brings is quickly dampened by the sound of voices from down the intersecting hallway; guards, if the deep crassness of their tone is any indication. There’s nowhere to hide in the stark and empty hallway, so he hurries as quietly as he can towards the closest door, marked STORAGE 21-C.

By some miracle, it’s unlocked.

Ed slips inside, and the door clicks shut behind him mere moments before the people coming down the hallway reach the intersection where he’d been standing – he assumes, at least, because the thick door stops any sound from entering the room.

 _It’s quiet like a grave down here_ , he thinks.

There’s plenty of lockers lining the wall he’s facing, large enough that he could fit in to hide, if need be. He contemplates it but ultimately decides against it for the moment, and turns to explore the rest of the room.

A small yelp escapes his lips before he smacks his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

 

***

 

_Sleep evades him._

_Whether it’s because he’s confused and frustrated – which, granted, seems like the most obvious answer – or because of something else entirely, he doesn’t know._

_Eventually, he decides to get out of bed and explore the room a bit further – a task that proves to be far more difficult than initially anticipated when his right leg gives out under him the second he puts his weight on it; he topples over in a spectacularly ungraceful fashion._

_A sharp pain radiates from his knee all the way to his spine and he fights the whimper crawling its way up his throat as he grabs the end of the bed to get up, careful this time to put his weight on his left leg instead, instinctively setting the right at an angle that decreases the tension and ache._

_He sits back on the bed, rolls up the leg of his pants, and checks his right knee. There’s a knotty, gnarly scar running along the side of it and he recalls a woman he hated and admired in equal measure who’d inflicted excruciating pain, but not where or when the injury happened._

_He rolls up his sleeves, too, and sees multiple thin scars that look like slashes from a knife on his forearms; pushes aside the collar of his shirt and sees more marks on his chest and stomach, the most noticeable of them right near his left collarbone, with puckered edges and a dip in the middle. It’s from a gunshot wound, he knows, somehow._

_Whoever he used to be doesn’t seem to have been a very upstanding citizen to say the least. The thought makes him laugh, but the sound comes out choked and dies before it fully escapes his throat._

_Discarding the impromptu self-examination, he stands again, more careful this time as he takes a few tentative steps away from the bed and inspects the room he’s in. The walls are bare, dull gray paint covering what a few knocks reveal to be metal paneling, further reinforcing the already thick walls._

_He’s in a cell, then, not a hospital room after all._

_He walks over to the door, slowly, doing his best to keep his balance. There’s no doorknob, just a little hatch with a shelf and an observation window above it, roughly six by eleven inches, set in the door low enough that he can see into the hallway. A growl and the rattling of chains from somewhere nearby startles him, forcing him to take a step back – he almost trips but catches himself before toppling for the second time in about as many minutes._

_He’s just about to return to the door and try to see where the sound came from when a man appears on the other side._

_The man is shorter than him, wearing red-tinted glasses and a smile without any warmth in it, looking at him as if he’s a lab rat that’s done particularly well in a test it didn’t know it was a part of._

_“Good afternoon,” the man behind the window says, the sound of his voice tinny through the metal door. “How are you doing today?”_

_He scoffs. “I’m locked in this room against my will. How do_ you _think I’m doing?”_

_The man smiles wider, almost shark-like. The eyes behind the red-tinted glasses are cold, calculating – assessing him, but what for, he does not know. “I can see you’re feeling more confident. Have you remembered who you are?”_

_He glares at the man._

_“I’ll take that as a no, then,” the man says, disappointment visible on his face, eyes narrowed behind the red-tinted glasses, but his tone remains cordial, even warm._

_Suspiciously so._

_“Who are you? What do you want from me?” he asks, crossing his arms and doing his best to make himself look threatening and authoritative, even though he knows he must look ridiculous in his bland, baggy clothes. Still, appearance is key, and if he puffs himself up enough, maybe he’ll get some answers. He hopes so, at least. “What is this place?”_

_The man smiles again, and it rubs him the wrong way, makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He’s at the man’s mercy, he realizes and fear coils uncomfortably in his stomach._

_“My name is Hugo Strange,” the man says. “As for the rest of it… all in due time, my friend, for we have much to discuss.”_

***

 

There are dead people stuffed into containment tanks.

It’s about as pleasant as it sounds.

There’s five that Ed can see from where he’s standing, their faces distorted by the curved glass, floating in liquid and dimly lit with blue light emanating from the bottom of the tanks.

The unnatural light makes them look far more like ghosts than the actual ghost he knows.

Well, _knew_ , because there’s been no sign of Oswald and there’s a real possibility he has moved on to greener pastures, wherever those may be. It won’t be Heaven, not for a man like the Penguin – not that Ed finds comfort in or believes in God or the existence of Heaven and Hell in the first place.

He wonders briefly if Oswald did.

Wherever his missing friend may be, though, it’s certainly not here, stuffed into a container and floating in some sort of liquid without a shred of dignity as the rest of them. Most of the corpses look as if they’re merely asleep, no visible injuries or abrasions on them to indicate how they met their respective ends. The one at the furthest end of the room, however, is mangled, pieces of their body carved off by what appears to be an expert hand. Moreover, it seems to have happened before death – although Ed must admit it’s hard to tell without a closer examination that he doesn’t have the tools or the time for right now.

Staring at the tanks, Ed ponders why they’d be storing cadavers down here and like this. None of the possible answers he can muster up are comforting, not even the – regrettably – likeliest ones. Considering the power fluctuations that seem to plague both the asylum above and Indian Hill itself, they’re doing something down here that requires a lot of electricity.

Could it be…?

It seems almost comically ironic that he’d find a modern-day Dr. Frankenstein within these halls, but Ed can’t say he’s all that surprised. After all, it is Gotham, and where else would such macabre science as reanimating the dead be done if not at Arkham?

Then again, if what he’d overheard is true and means what he thinks it does, Strange and his cronies weren’t doing particularly well with that a week ago. Of course, it’s no guarantee that they haven’t had a breakthrough in the time since, but he’ll believe it when he sees it; potential zombies are the least of his worries right now, surrounded by monsters both literal and figurative as he is down here.

He walks past the containers, stopping for a moment every now and then to peek a closer look at the lifeless subjects within, and is almost at the blank service door on the left side of the room when there’s the tell-tale beep of a key card and the larger panel door on the wall opposite starts sliding open.

So much for hiding in the lockers.

He moves quickly as he can to the shadowed corner closest to him, hunches down and hopes that whoever is coming in doesn’t notice his presence. If they go into the room deep enough and if, somehow, he manages to not trip over his own feet, he can slip through the panel door before it closes.

It’s a long shot, but it’s the only option he has, and he finds himself wondering whether he should first find someplace to swipe a different set of clothes as well as a key card before venturing deeper into the compound. Unfortunately, time is steadily working against him – it won’t be long now until his absence will be noticed upstairs – and it’s starting to look like he’ll be lucky to make it out of Indian Hill alive.

If he makes it out at all.

The door opens fully and it’s just Ed’s luck that Hugo Strange himself – ever accompanied by Ms. Peabody, as well as two staffers and three armed guards – steps into the room he’s currently trapped in.

Ed stays put in his corner, keeping his eyes on the group as they enter but careful not to look at anyone for too long: he knows all too well what it feels like to be stared at, and cannot afford to raise any suspicions that would cause them to look his way, not while he’s defenseless and crouching in a corner like an animal, afraid and undignified.

“I think Mr. Karlo will be next in line for the procedure,” Strange says and motions the staffers to the further end of the room where the body of a stocky, bald man is suspended in the containment tank closest to the door Ed came in from. “Prepare the subject for extraction.”

Ms. Peabody notes something down on her clipboard, frowning. “Are you certain, sir? We’re starting to run low on subjects and the process still isn’t perfected – our success rate has been far lower than projected.”

Strange cocks his head, offering her a smile.

Ms. Peabody looks back at him, not appearing particularly reassured.

“Practice makes perfect, my dear,” he tells her, and it seems to placate her somewhat, because while the sour look on her face doesn’t disappear, she doesn’t argue any further.

They step deeper into the room together, Strange telling the guards to accompany and assist the staffers with whatever it is they’re doing, and it doesn’t really matter anyway because Ed can’t spare his attention to puzzle over it, not when he needs to make his get out of here.

He waits a few seconds, just until everyone’s backs are turned, and darts out of his hiding spot, heading out the door as quickly as he can without making any noise. He makes it out of the door and luckily, it seems to be at the end of a hallway, so he can continue, unobserved.

“Did you notice our houseguest?” Ms. Peabody asks Strange once she deems Ed to be out of earshot. “Should I notify the guards?”

Strange grins. “I’m curious to see what he thinks he’s doing here. Let him be for now. If he starts causing too much trouble, though…”

Ms. Peabody smiles and a wall and fifty feet away, Ed moves on through the compound, blissfully unaware.

 

***

 

_He’s sitting on the bed again, annoyed and bored out of his mind._

_It’s not the confinement, per se, that irks him, it’s the unbearable monotony of his surroundings – everything is a variation on gray, a small room with no readily available distractions. Already he has painstakingly measured the size of his cell step by step: fifteen steps wide, twelve steps long. Of course, whether his gait is a viable measuring device remains questionable; he’s discovered his steps are irregular at best and a wobbly waddle at worst._

_Strange promised him entertainment and has yet to deliver._

_Has yet to deliver on most of his promises, in fact: he still isn’t sure what the man wants from him, let alone how he got here or what happened to him. He must have had a life before being here, he thinks, perhaps even a family (a mother; laughter and melancholy music and safety and dancing and dancing and dancing) and a job (a king; gunshots and rage and gore and pain and pain and pain) and a home (a lopsided building; dark stairways and cheap apartments and roses and dust and porcelain dishes and soft linen)._

_He doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers enough to know that there was something, good and bad all mixed together and he might’ve been happy but might just as well have been miserable. It’s hard to tell without clear memories to rely on; he has flashes, wisps of recollection that feel right, but nothing concrete to draw conclusions from._

_He doesn’t remember where he grew up or who his parents were or where he went to school or whether he had any friends, doesn’t remember the reason for what happened to his leg to make him limp so severely, doesn’t remember where he got the scars marring his torso and his forearms, doesn’t remember what his personality was like or what his favorite color was._

_But he does remember what it feels like to be falling underwater and playing the piano and what rain feels like falling on his cheeks and how it feels to hurt and how it feels to kill._

_His body remembers where his mind does not._

_And that’s the most unsettling part of his whole situation, especially with people showing up and asking him about his identity. He can’t tell them that, thanks to the lack of a past to draw from, he can’t even begin to know who he used to be – he can only tell them who he is right now, and he’s not sure how to put that into words others can understand._

_It’s hard to be a sum of one’s experiences when one does not remember them._

_He lies down and hums to himself, slightly off-key, and it calms him (soft hands stroking his hair and forehead kisses and warm hugs and singing, slightly off-key much like he knows his own voice would be and feeling like he could conquer the world). Eventually, exhaustion takes over once more, the mental and physical strain of the time he’s spent awake finally catching up with him._

_Before he knows it, he drifts off to restless dreams of pain and screaming and crushing despair but for the first time since he woke up, he doesn’t feel alone._

_It’s comfort enough._

***

 

Ed wishes, not for the first time in the hour or so he’s been down here, that he had a map or at least the slightest notion of where he might attain one.

He doesn’t like wandering around both blind and without a plan – well, he _has_ a plan, it’s just that its pieces are rather fluid at the moment.

Improvising has never been one of his strong suits.

So, he trudges on, keeping an eye out for any employees or guards, but the place has been quiet so far, save for the close call with Strange and his entourage. It’s almost too quiet, now that he thinks about it. It’s the middle of the day; shouldn’t there be more staff members present in a secret research compound of this size?

Maybe his usual bad luck is turning.

After all, he did manage to get out of the storage room with relative ease.

And to get into Indian Hill on his first attempt.

Still, the thought nags at him.

He’s missing something, has overlooked something crucial that he can’t help but feel will come back to haunt him.

As much as it irritates him, though, he needs to keep going: he’s all but buried the idea that he’ll make it back upstairs unnoticed, but he hasn’t found 113 yet, and anything less than achieving the goal he’s set for himself is unacceptable.

He makes another left turn and reaches yet another hallway. It seems to be more like an administrative block than the containment units he saw on the way here, but there are numbers marking the doors.

_AA117, AA116…_

His heart beats faster. _Shouldn’t be long now_ , he thinks, and relief washes over him. In a moment, he’ll find what he’s been looking for and then, then he can leave this place behind and examine his experiences from a distance.

Safe, sweet, coveted distance.

Quick glances into the observation windows of the doors reveal the cells are empty.

_AA115, AA114…_

The lights flicker.

He looks up at the ceiling, annoyed. If they go out right now, just as he’s about to finally see the reason he’s here…

The relief from before dissipates as quickly as it appeared and forms a lump in his throat; he swallows, trying to get rid of it.

He clenches his hands to stop them from shaking.

Both cells are empty like the ones before.

 _AA113_.

It’s a door much like the others – the only difference being that this cell is, without a doubt, occupied.

A small figure is lying on the bed, facing away from the door. A tuft of dark hair is visible from beneath the top of the covers, which have been pulled up far enough to over the rest of their body.

He was right after all.

113 _is_ a test subject.

As if sensing they’re being looked at, the figure stirs. The light in the cell is dim enough that it’s hard to make out the details, but when 113 stands up and faces towards the door for the first time, it’s…

A small gasp escapes from Ed before he can stop it.

“Oswald?” he says, completely bewildered.

Test subject 113 takes a few steps towards the door, and if Ed had any doubts before about the man’s identity, they’re gone by the time the light catches the other’s face. Appearances are far easier to fabricate than mannerisms, yes, but the way that the man moves, the way he furrows his brows and lifts his chin in defiance combined with his all-too-familiar appearance, it’s…

It’s breathtaking.

It’s Oswald, here, in the flesh, not six feet from where Ed is standing. And Ed feels like he could cry, tears teetering on the verge of spilling because the ghost could never compare to the real thing – not anymore, not now that he’s seen what the real Oswald looks like, alive and radiant even in this hellhole.

Ed can’t help the smile that breaks onto his face, so wide it makes his cheeks hurt.

He hasn’t lost the best friend he’s ever had to whatever it is that happens after all that remains is gone, be it Heaven or Hell or something else entirely. No, he’s standing here, close enough to touch were it not for the door between them, and it’s nothing short of a miracle.

If Ed wasn’t a believer in a benevolent fate before, he sure is now.

The feeling, however, only lasts right up until the moment Oswald stares back at him with no recognition in his gaze, eyes wide and almost feral, and asks, “Do I know you?”

Ed’s smile falls, hurt taking its place.

It’s a parody of their true first meeting, except Ed has the benefit of recollection when Oswald has none.

Still, Ed gives it a shot.

“It’s me, it’s Ed. You know me, Oswald,” he says, desperate to spark any kind of recognition in the other. “Don’t you remember?”

Oswald furrows his brow even more, squares his shoulders and looks Ed right in the eye. “Why do you call me that? Who are you? What do you want from me?” he asks, taking a wobbly step closer to the glass separating them.

Ed doesn’t know where to start.

 

***

 

_He wakes from his dreams and feels someone’s gaze on the back of his head._

_He gets up slowly, cautious not to make the same mistake he did before and fall over only to embarrass himself (there must be a camera in the room, he thinks, how else could his first visitors have known when to show up otherwise) and possibly make his knee injury worse._

_When he turns, he expects to see Hugo Strange looking back at him through the glass, come back to pry him with questions he can’t answer, cryptic as a sphinx and colder than December snow._

_Instead it’s…_

_“Oswald?” the man says, lips remaining parted after the words have left them, and, with a start, he realizes the man is addressing him._

_The name sounds familiar, somehow, feels_ right _, but still he hesitates before stepping forward, half-dragging his right leg along: the uncomfortable bed has made it ache worse than before and he’ll have to ask for some painkillers if he can’t manage to bargain for a better bed._

_The man looks at him, grinning so wide it must hurt, and there’s so much happiness in his gaze that it threatens to spill out in the form of tears. Somehow, he looks familiar, the jumpsuit with a chest tag reading D-171 in red letters, the lanky frame and the slightly curly brown hair, the wide, dark eyes, the high cheekbones and the line of his jaw, even the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose._

_The only thing is, he doesn’t understand why._

_“Do I know you?” he says, and the man’s smile wobbles._

_There’s a pang behind his ribs. He didn’t mean to wound (not this time, not right now, not him), but finds it hard to admit any fault for something he couldn’t control._

_His confusion must show, because the other’s eyes widen as he stares back. “It’s me, it’s Ed. You know me, Oswald. Don’t you remember?” the other says, and he doesn’t, can’t fight the irritation seeping into his voice when he replies, because he’s met three people so far and all of them want him to do the impossible and are disappointed when he can’t deliver._

_“Why do you call me that? Who are you? What do you want from me?” he says, staring back defiantly, and the man – Ed, if that really is his name – looks dumbstruck._

_That makes two of them._

_After a tense silence filled with staring, Ed cracks and is just about to answer when there’s the telltale sound of the door at the end of the hallway opening; Ed looks over and his eyes widen, so much so that it’s almost comical._

_“Mister Nygma,” a familiar voice says from where he can’t see, out of the sightline the observation window allows him to have from within the cell. “I’m pleased to see you’ve made a friend.”_

_“Professor Strange,” Ed replies, his voice all effortless bravado, even though it’s easy to tell he’s terrified, his shoulders tense and the expression on his face far more like a grimace than an actual smile, which is what he seems to be attempting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_He’s silent in the cell, watching Ed through the window – he still can’t see Strange, and is beginning to think it’s intentional, that Strange is staying further back where he can’t see him as an intentional move, although he can’t be certain what it is exactly that Strange is trying to achieve by it._

***

 

Hugo Strange has absurd timing.

It’s almost funny, in a way, despite the situation decidedly not being humorous at all. At least not for Ed, who is probably going to get killed for his trouble and just exactly when he was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he can set things right.

“I’m afraid we must cut this little visit of yours short,” Strange says, the six guards he has flanking him stony-faced and in any other situation, Ed would be flattered, but right now all he can think of is how he could be gunned down in this godforsaken place any moment and no one would care.

He glances through the window at Oswald, and there’s no hint of emotion on the other’s face besides curiosity. He doesn’t recognize Ed, is genuinely unaware of how much Ed knows about him and vice versa.

Unaware of his own identity.

And even though the cards seem to be played completely against him, Ed realizes he’s not ready to die. Not yet, at least, and certainly not here.

So, he turns to face Strange fully and gives a nod of assent, signaling he’ll come along without any trouble. Strange smiles, the red-tinted glasses over his eyes covering any hint of warmth in his eyes.

Not that Ed would be foolish enough to expect there to be any.

“I’ll see you again,” he tells Oswald before he goes, and he doesn’t know why. It’s not very likely, considering how Ed’s probably going to be walking to his own execution in a few seconds’ time; a promise that he shouldn’t make but one he makes anyway, because surely, it can’t end like this.

The sliver of hope clings to his heart.

There’s a seemingly mutual silent agreement that whatever Strange is going to do to him, he won’t do it here and now helps: not in a capacity that would give Ed any measure of confidence in his fate, but enough.

So, Ed steps away from the cell and walks down the hall to where Strange is standing accompanied by five guards. Strange motions two of them over to Ed and they grab his arms, rather painfully in fact – they’ll leave bruises, he’s sure; if he lives long enough, that is – before they half-drag, half-push him along as Strange leads the way.

Like Orpheus returning from the underworld, Ed is unable to keep himself from looking back.

 

***

 

I’ll see you again.

_The words bounce back and forth in his mind as he watches Ed walk away, towards Strange and whoever the man has with him – whatever he may have been before this, he knows he wasn’t stupid._

_And neither is Hugo Strange, if their previous encounter is anything to go by._

_There are no sounds to indicate a struggle, which leads him to believe Ed has left willingly. Considering the numbered jumpsuit he was wearing, he must be an inmate of some sort… but where? How did he end up here? And why?_

_That Ed recognized him, was beyond happy to see him, troubles him: he doesn’t remember Ed, despite some small part of him that tells him he should, that he should recognize the name the man called him by. That he had another name, too, once upon a time, that he’s perhaps seen this man before, somewhere, has spoken to him before, in another lifetime._

_But Ed is gone now and with him, the chance that he might finally get some answers as to who he is, where he is and what happened to him to make him forget._

_They bring him food on a metal tray, mashed potatoes and peas and a chewy chicken fillet – none of it tastes like anything, the texture gummy and unpleasant, but he scarfs it down anyway, figuring he’ll need his strength._

_There’s nothing to do but get back to bed and try to sleep, even though he’s not tired. Because some instinct, or perhaps some forgotten experience, tells him he should rest up while he still can, since there’s no telling when he’ll get the chance again, not with how there doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to the visits he gets._

_So, he lies down once again and closes his eyes. In the space between waking and dreaming, he tries to ignore the occasional screeches from somewhere down the hall and tries to forget the way Ed looked at him, full of promise and something else, a something he doesn’t know how to name; how frightening it had been, and how exhilarating._

_He succeeds in accomplishing the former. The latter is a wholly different matter, because the man follows him into his dreams full strange visions of lives he doesn’t remember living – sometimes without Ed, sometimes with him, looking different every time just as he knows he does himself. Ed’s presence is both a curse and a comfort, both familiar and foreign._

_In some scenarios, Ed tries to kill him; succeeds, too, in a few. In others, Ed is a friend, however he can be, and the affection he feels in these bleeds into the former, makes his heart beat faster and his hands shake, the words he’s trying to say crackling and sticking in the back of his throat like nails._

***

 

In the end, Ed is simply brought back upstairs.

Strange dismisses three of the guards on the way back from the juncture where the hidden entrance to the elevator is and they wander off, back into the labyrinthine halls. The other two keep their grip on Ed’s arms.

The elevator ride back up is tense and quiet.

Peabody joins them once they’re back up top, her heels knocking out a steady rhythm on the concrete floor as she walks, her face stony and betraying no emotion other than mild annoyance.

He’s taken to Strange’s personal office, a relatively small but comfortable room on the third floor of the administrative block – a place Ed recognizes from when he first arrived in Arkham what feels like a lifetime ago.

Once they’re inside, the guards let go of him and Strange tells them to leave the room.

Beside him, Peabody presses her lips together into a tight line, obviously not pleased. Strange doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care, it’s hard to tell; he sits down behind the desk and picks up a pen, twirling it between his fingers.

Peabody takes her place on his left side, as still as a statue.

“Take a seat, Mr. Nygma,” Strange tells Ed, who complies, sitting down on the chair in front of the desk. Strange smiles and twirls his pen, staring at Ed as if he’s looking through him.

Despite himself, Ed feels a cold shiver run down his back.

“Now… What to do with you…” Strange says, trailing off as if in contemplation.

Ed knows better, thinks that it’s more than likely Strange already has a plan – a plan that without a doubt involves grievous bodily harm, and Ed is in no hurry to meet it. But he also knows that, much like the majority of Gothamites, Strange has a flair for the dramatic. So, he sits still, presses his fingernails into the palm of his hand and waits.

“I think he and Mr. Stirk would be fast friends,” Peabody says after a moment and Strange laughs, the sound reverberating through the room.

“Yes, I see what you mean, my dear,” he says, and Ed feels another shiver down his spine. “An excellent idea, as usual.”

Peabody preens ever so slightly under the praise.

Ed fights the desire to roll his eyes. “I can be useful,” he says, fixing his eyes on Strange. 

Strange cocks his head. “Is that so?”

“I was smart enough to figure out the way downstairs; give me a chance and I will prove myself to be an asset,” Ed tells him, and Peabody scoffs.

“You should be made an example of,” she says, her tone flat and her eyes narrowed at him as if she can’t believe a lowly creature such as himself would dare speak this way.

Ed pushes down the rage boiling in the pit of his stomach and steels himself. “You _could_ do that,” he says, keeping his voice nonchalant. “Or you could do the smart thing and listen to my offer. I can be useful to you because I worked for the GCPD, and I know they’re getting close to exposing the little side project you’ve got going on in the basement. And I can also be useful to you because I can help you with a certain caged bird you’re having trouble with. That’s two reasons already. I could go on, if you’d like.”

He’s bluffing, and he’s sure Strange must know this, but he does his best to keep his expression neutrally pleasant nonetheless.

Peabody rolls her eyes. “What makes you think you’re in the position to make any offers?” she asks Ed.

A quick glance to the man in front of him reveals that Peabody is alone in her immediate dismissal, as Strange regards him with a hint of curiosity. At least, Ed assumes that’s what it is – it’s a bit hard to tell because of the red-tinted glasses.

With that, Ed realizes that he just might pull this gamble off, so he shrugs and says, “What has no hands but might knock on your door, and you better open up if it does?”

“An opportunity,” Strange replies easily, waiting like a snake coiled in the grass.

“Correct. I’m offering you one here,” Ed tells him, smiling sweetly even as his heart is pounding and his palms are clammy with sweat. “The choice of whether to take advantage of it or not is yours, sir. After all, I’m completely expendable.”

“You’re absolutely right about that,” Peabody says, and Ed keeps the smile plastered on his face despite another tick of rage rearing up in his chest.

 _Later_ , he thinks. _If I make it through this alive, there’ll be time for payback later._

Strange twirls the pen between his fingers, deep in thought – Ed can almost see the cogs turning in his head. Peabody is looking unhappier by the second, her mouth settling into a line so thin she must be gritting her teeth hard enough for it to hurt.

It’s all or nothing now. The bait is laid out, as appealing as Ed could make it in such a short time and with little but his word to back it up.

Everything hinges on whether Strange will bite and play along.

If not, Ed’s done for.

If he does, it’s very likely Ed’s done for anyway, but at least he’ll buy himself some time.

A minute passes.

Another.

Ed waits patiently, trying to keep himself looking as open and honest as possible – trying to sway Strange’s decision to favor him.

“Very well, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says eventually, and Peabody’s face falls. She composes herself quickly, though, squaring her shoulders and if it weren’t for the little crease between her eyebrows, her disapproval would be almost undetectable. “Now, Ms. Peabody, if you would escort Mr. Nygma back to his cell… I think he’s had enough excitement for the day, don’t you?”

Like a soldier obeying their commander, Peabody complies, motioning for Ed to stand up. He does, and she moves to take ahold of his arm with more force than strictly necessary – it confirms his suspicion that she’s very, very angry with him, and that it would hurt a considerable amount more than the grips of the guards did.

“I think you’ll find there’s no need for that, my dear,” Strange says, looking Ed right in the eye even as he speaks to her. “Mr. Nygma has promised to help us, after all, and it would do him no good to try and run now. Would it?”

Ed shakes his head, a role model of obedience.

Peabody lets go and simply motions for Ed to follow her, ever the picture of obedience. She rolls her eyes once her back turned to Strange, however, and Ed makes a note of it just in case.

“Good day, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says before the door closes behind them.

A good day indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

The evening comes with the rare sight of a sunset, painting what little slivers of the sky are visible from within the asylum from their usual gray into pastel shades of red and pink. It doesn’t last long – the sight is there but for a few minutes before the clouds roll in again, turning late evening into night as they extinguish the colors.

 _It’ll be spring, soon_ , Ed thinks, stepping away from the window once there’s nothing left to see, and sits on his bed to stare up at the ventilation duct cover in the ceiling.

He wonders if he should get out while he still can.

It would certainly be easier than his current plan. Sure, he’d be on the run, on his own, but at this point, being a fugitive might be preferable to becoming a chew toy for whatever monster they’ve got waiting for him if – when – he fails to deliver on his promises.

Still, he can’t bring himself to do it.

Perhaps it’s because he’s still not satisfied with what he’s learned so far – he knows there’s more to it, a reason other than scientific curiosity to why Strange is trying to resurrect the dead in the basement – or perhaps because he doesn’t want to leave Oswald behind.

Perhaps it’s both.

Perhaps it’s neither.

While Ed’s relatively sure he doesn’t have a martyr complex, he also finds he’s unwilling to leave behind his only friend. Even if said friend has no memory of him.

In a sense, then, it’s a matter of principle, and in another, a matter of pride.

 _Nobody ever does anything for no reason. I can’t expect you to be any different_ , Oswald had told him what now seems like a lifetime ago, although it’s only been a couple of days.

 _Find the reasoning behind any action and you will find fear to be the primary instigator,_ Jonathan said, and the way the boy’s eyes seemed to see right through him, down to the deepest, darkest parts of his core still unsettles him.

Both had been right, in their own way.

Shifting on the bed, he accidentally knocks his left arm against the bedframe. As waves of sickly-sweet pain flare from the hand-shaped bruises the guards had left him with does Ed manage to pull himself away from his thoughts. He hisses quietly through his teeth as the still-tender flesh aches and aches and aches, and before long he’s staring out the window, if only to try and distract himself.

He really should rest up while he can.

So, he lies back, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep, mind racing a million miles a minute despite his best efforts to quiet it.

 

_He’s in the cell with Oswald’s ghost, on the verge of falling asleep._

_It’s the middle of the night; the soft light from the lamps outside bathes the room in a warm glow, casting flickering shadows on the metal door._

_They’ve been talking for hours, Ed lying on his back on the bed, Oswald sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, and Ed’s about to drift off, the warmth of companionship easing his racing mind far better than exhaustion or intoxication ever could._

_Noticing his sudden silence, Oswald starts humming quietly, the slightly off-key melody forming another source of comfort against the backdrop of the chilly cell._

_“I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant and last a lifetime. What am I?” Ed says, eyes still closed._

_“Hmm?”_

_Ed repeats the riddle, turning over to his side to look at him._

_“A memory,” Oswald replies after a moment. “What about it?”_

_Ed answers with the best imitation of a shrug he can manage for the moment. “You’ve been humming the same song every night. I figure it must have some meaning for you.”_

_Oswald sighs. “When I was little, my mother used to sing it to me every night before bed. She’d tell me not to listen to the other kids, that I was handsome and clever and that I’d be somebody, someday. And I tried to believe her, even though I didn’t see anything of what she said I was when I looked in the mirror. She saw that, I think, but she still said it every night without fail.” He smiles sadly, closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall._

_Ed wonders if ghosts can cry; not that he expects Oswald to – while the wound remains deep, it’s not as fresh as it once was. “Tell me about her,” he says, and Oswald looks at him, a wordless question in his expression._

_“I… My parents were hardly what you’d call loving,” Ed explains, intentionally vague for not wanting to ruin the moment with descriptions of his own horrid parents when Oswald is clearly still grieving, “and I can’t help but wonder: what was your mother like for you to love her so? If you wish, you can tell me about her.”_

_Oswald’s responding smile is watery, but he obliges Ed’s request and tells him about his mother and what little he knows about his father, all the good parts of his childhood like when she took him to a fair for his sixth birthday even though she could hardly afford it, how she used to fuss over him and constantly worry, how proud of him she was and how she used to cook, using old recipes she’d learned from her mother who’d learned them from her own mother and so on, and how she’d taught him to cook borscht and bake pirozhki when he was nine so he could feed himself if – when – she had to work late again._

_Ed listens to it all, even if sleeping would be the more rational course of action, because the soft smile on Oswald’s face as he recalls story after story is more than worth staying awake for._

***

 

To his surprise, Ed is sent to therapy the next morning as if nothing had happened. As he sits there, as he answers yet again the same asinine questions he’s been asked several times before, as he pretends to listen to the doctor’s useless commentary, he can’t help but mull over the events of the previous day.

Why is this façade of normalcy being maintained when things are decidedly not normal? Surely this must be some sort of trick, a powerplay from Strange, but to what end? To bore him to death?

On second thought…

He wouldn’t be surprised if that was indeed the case, _psychological warfare_ being the unofficial motto of the asylum and all that. Which means that he should really be paying more attention to what’s going on.

It’s with this caution – _paranoia_ , a part of his mind whispers – that the rest of the session continues; uneventfully, perhaps, but that doesn’t stop his mind from racing in order to figure out where the trick is, whatever said trick may be.

Once the charade of therapy finally – mercifully – ends, he’s escorted to the playpen as usual.

Jonathan is at the table Ed habitually favors, two massive books resting on the table by his elbow and nose buried in a newspaper. As Ed approaches, he doesn’t look up – par for the course by now; nothing personal, Ed knows – and so Ed takes a seat, his back to the rest of the room and the people contained within.

Reckless, perhaps, but…

He won’t get shanked in the middle of the playpen.

Probably.

Ed picks at the edge of the table, the weight of uncertainty heavy in his chest, as Jonathan continues reading the paper. After a while, though, the quiet in the air becomes oppressive in its weightlessness. For Ed’s already somewhat frayed nerves, it’s the opposite of helpful, so he asks, “Anything interesting?”, and hopes Jonathan will provide him with a distraction.

His agitation must be evident in the tone of his voice, because Jonathan finally looks up. “Violence and deaths and city-wide threats. Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says, folding the newspaper neatly and offering it to Ed.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ed replies, as nonchalant as he can be under the circumstances, and accepts the paper. He lets his eyes glide over the front-page news of a five-car collision on the highway leading out of the city before neatly tearing the page from the binding.

He briefly considers making it into a plane, but the paper is far too soft to be any good in the air, so he just folds it into something resembling a boat.

It feels a bit like giving up.

They are quiet for another moment, and Ed dreads the inevitable question – as well as the fact that Jonathan can probably already tell from his mood exactly how well his big break-in had gone, and that it won’t stop him from asking still.

Speaking of…

“How’d your expedition go?” Jonathan asks just as Ed had predicted, sharp eyes watching the nervous movement of Ed’s hands with a minuscule spark of curiosity.

“I got what I went there for and then some,” Ed says, partly because the secret is not his to share, at least not when it could put Oswald’s life – _second_ life – in danger, and partly because it feels good to know something no one else does. It lifts his mood somewhat, but the sour edge of disappointment remains.

Jonathan, however, seems satisfied with the answer – although it _is_ hard to tell with him. He doesn’t press any further, though, which Ed chooses to interpret as a positive response, and opens the book closest to his elbow to look at diagrams of molecular structures, bordered by tiny columns of text.

Surprise after surprise.

“Biochemistry?” Ed asks, although he can clearly see that that’s exactly what it is.

Jonathan looks up for a moment before returning to the book. “They won’t let me have access to my father’s research. Apparently, my reaction would be ‘unpredictable’–” his voice drips with barely-concealed mockery, hands barely lifting for his slender fingers to form the air quotes – “so I have to make do with what they’ll _let_ me read. Which, for the most part, are old, out of date books.”

Ed nods absentmindedly, unraveling his creation and reconstructing it until the paper becomes too soft to fold. “It’ll pass the time,” he says.

Jonathan shrugs. “I want to use my time wisely. I’ll be out of here soon, no matter what my great-grandmother might want. And it’ll do me good to prepare for college, even if I’m stuck in a madhouse right now.”

Ed nods again, glances up at the ceiling out of habit, listens to the humdrum of the inmates squabbling and chattering behind him. “How long until you get out?”

“One month and twenty-three days,” Jonathan says, lips twitching into something resembling a smile. “Although sometimes it feels like I’ll remain until I grow old and die.”

Ed knows the feeling all too well. “Time itself does not abide by the laws of Arkham,” he says, a small smile at the corner of his mouth, the words as much a warning as a comfort.

Jonathan’s mouth twitches in response.

 

***

 

_He’s been lying awake for an hour, staring up at the ceiling and starting to notice patterns in the plaster. The worst thing about being stuck here, he has decided, is that it’s impossible to tell what time it is._

_He’s sure – well, mostly sure, anyway – that, elsewhere, time continues to pass normally, but here…_

_Being here is like being outside of time, the only indication of its passing being the meals he gets; he has yet to determine whether the intervals are regular. There’s no natural light and by extension, no real way to even begin to guess what the time might be whenever he gets fed._

_So, he sleeps, counts the number of spiders he can see in the cell from where he’s currently standing, sitting, or lying down, and recites a list of things he knows about himself. Said list, pitifully short as it is, reads as follows:_

  1. _His name may or may not be Oswald,_
  2. _On him, baggy, light gray clothes are an unflattering look,_
  3. _He has been imprisoned by some entity/entities for unknown purposes, and_
  4. _He doesn’t remember anything from his life before._



_It’s hardly anything to build an identity around, but it’s not like he has any other options. Not unless he sees Ed again – the only person he’s met so far who would be willing to provide some answers or, at the very least, tell him something useful._

_They bring him a meal and it’s nothing to write home about, the same flavorless mush he’d eaten twice before, but he eats it, slow and calm even though he’d rather be done with it quick than savor it._

_But eating slowly, poring over the food and trying to see what ingredients have been used passes the time. The indulgence of the day, for example, appears to be something resembling beef stew with only the barest hint of salt and no pepper._

_He briefly thinks it’d be far easier to eat if he had wine to wash it down with._

_Once he’s done, it’s back to the soul-sucking monotony of the cell._

_The whole experience is exactly what he imagines going mad must feel like: no need to think, nothing but a muddled awareness of everything around him that feels both dull and sharp at the same time._

_Strange still hasn’t brought him anything to read; hasn’t been by at all, in fact._

_At this point, he’d take the company of that serpent over being alone._

_Of course, since the Universe seems to hate him for reasons he cannot remember, it’s not Strange that shows up along with the guard that takes his tray and plastic utensils away; that would be far too convenient, and if he’s learned anything about himself in the past day or so, it’s that his life is everything but._

_Instead of who he wants to see, it’s the woman that came by the first time he woke up. She’s brought two guards with her; for some reason, they see him as a threat, then._

_To his wired mind, the thought is hilarious._

_He’s not exactly the type that’s able to physically overpower anyone, at least not without the aid of weapons – and he doesn’t have any of those, so he’s as harmless as a fly._

_At least for now._

_Unprompted, she threatens him with sedation if he doesn’t comply with what she tells him to do exactly the moment she tells him to do it, that she’ll enter the cell and take some blood samples and check his heart rate and blood pressure. And most of all, that she can just as easily do all those things while he’s sedated, so, really, it’s his own choice._

_So, he bites his tongue, rolls his eyes when she can’t see, allows her to draw his blood and measure his blood pressure, and doesn’t do anything that might be considered uncooperative._

_She doesn’t tell him anything further, just finishes her work quickly and leaves, locking the door behind her._

_Back to staring at the walls it is, then._

_He hums under his breath, scraps of a melody half-forgotten, and returns to counting the spiders crawling on the ceiling._

***

 

In the afternoon, Strange comes by to fetch him.

Not personally, of course – Ed does, however, get escorted to Strange’s office by two guards, which he supposes is close enough. The guards grip the exact spots on his arms that are sore from the previous day and he has to bite his tongue to keep from voicing his discomfort.

Pressure on fresh bruises is effective; just in case, he files the information away in the back of his mind.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says when he enters the office. Peabody is nowhere to be seen. “Please, take a seat.”

Ed complies, because it’s not as if he has a choice in the matter, especially considering the two guards who, at this point, seem to be glued to his arms.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Leave us,” Strange tells the two and the guards exchange a brief look but let him go without argument.

As soon as they’re out the door, Strange opens a dossier on his desk.

“Now, Mr. Nygma. I seem to recall your offer to help us with a certain… _aptenodytes forsteri_. I hope you have not changed your mind in the meanwhile? It would be such a shame…” he trails off and looks Ed right in the eye.

Sly serpent.

“My offer still stands,” Ed replies, ignoring the gleam of amusement behind Strange’s glasses. “That is, if _you’re_ still up for it.”

Strange smiles, teeth gleaming in the sparse daylight that manages to filter its way through the window. “Without question. But first, tell me, what do you know about the events that led our fine-feathered friend into his current… predicament?”

Ed shrugs. “Nothing at all.”

Strange laughs, the sound low and, somehow, almost threatening. “I sincerely doubt that. But… it will have to do. Give _him_ the same answer when the question inevitably comes, and I won’t be forced to terminate our current partnership.”

Ed nods his assent. He’d expected nothing less than vague threats just as easily as he’d anticipated the occasional pauses Strange peppers throughout his words. “I’ll assume the same goes for his death,” he replies flatly.

If Strange is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Of course,” he tells Ed with another smile.

Ed hasn’t met anyone who can make a smile look poisonous the way Hugo Strange can.

A flash of _green hair chalk-white skin a purple suit a lilting voice and bared teeth and laughter and laughter and laughter_ flits through his mind, but it’s already gone by the time he starts to register it.

The point is, Strange’s demeanor is far more unnerving than Jonathan’s cold detachment or Oswald’s rages, or even the rabid ferocity that crops up in some of the inmates. Moreover, it’s a lot more dangerous.

Not for the first time, a small part of Ed wonders if he made the right decision in putting his offer forward.

“Can I see him?” he asks eventually, once Strange stops staring at him and returns to looking through the dossier.

“Soon,” Strange says, not looking up from the papers. “Ms. Peabody will be here momentarily to escort you.”

Ed blinks once, twice. “You mean… right now?”

Strange smiles again, all warmth and pleasantry with nothing in his eyes to back it up, and nods.

Ed’s heartbeat picks up, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected to be allowed downstairs again so soon, hadn’t really expected to be allowed to see Oswald at all, but it seems the Universe is on his side today.

That is, if he can manage to figure out how to approach the situation.

 

***

 

_They move him._

_At least, he thinks they do – he doesn’t remember it, doesn’t see it happening, but one minute he’s napping in his cell and the next, he’s somewhere else._

_The new room – the new cell, he has to remind himself – offers little change in terms of color scheme, but the additional space means there’s room for an actual table with two chairs. Which… should not feel like a luxury but does._

_Moreover, the lighting is different – while there are harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling, there is also a window with a view over water and a vast cityscape somewhere beyond. Warmth floods his chest when he looks at the silhouettes of towering buildings, of bridges and warehouses and municipal structures, the distance leaving it all looking like charcoal outlines on the backdrop of an overcast sky._

_Home._

_Whatever this city is called, wherever it may be, he belongs to it – and it belongs to him._

_The thought hits him like a freight train, making his hands shake as he grips the windowsill, knuckles white._

_He stays there, staring at the city as the sky grows darker by the minute with an approaching thunderstorm. He can hear the rumble of it in the distance, can almost feel the static crackle in the air._

_The cell door opens behind him, startling him out of his reverie._

_He turns to see that the woman from before is back once again._

_She hasn’t brought the guards with her this time – at least none that he can see._

_He’s just about to step forward when she says, “One move out of line and this little visit is over.”_

_He halts, and she smirks, turning slightly to motion to someone standing outside his view._

_“You’re up,” she says, stepping back to allow Ed entrance to the room. “Half an hour. We’ll be watching.”_

_When he doesn’t move immediately, she nudges him further inside and closes the door, locking it behind her._

_He doesn’t know what to say._

_Seemingly, neither does Ed._

_“You again,” he manages eventually, once he’s acknowledged that he can’t think of anything better to say._

_Ed smiles. “Me again, indeed. Do you mind if I sit, Oswald?”_

_He shrugs, and the taller man takes a seat at the table, his back to the door – and open to attack, should one come._

_He doubts it will but keeps an eye on the door still._

_Ed looks at him with wonder in his eyes, just like he did the first time, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing._

_It’s both mildly flattering and majorly uncomfortable._

_“Why are you here?” he asks when the silence starts to lean on the wrong side of heavy._

_“I… I wanted to help, however I can,” Ed says after a moment of consideration._

_“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he asks after he’s mulled over the previous answer and found it satisfactory enough if unbearably vague._

_“Like what?”_

_“Like you’re happy to see me. Like you care. Why?”_

_Ed thinks for a moment; once again selecting the right words, it seems. “We… we were friends, if that’s what you mean. I am happy to see you.”_

_An acceptable answer, if an unsatisfying one._

_There must be something more to do the story, something he doesn’t know._

_“I’m guessing you’re not a part of the staff here,” he says, and Ed nods._

_“I made a deal with them yesterday.”_

_He narrows his eyes at Ed, who immediately splutters and starts explaining, faster than a speeding bullet. “Not like that, I’m not going to hurt you, I just… I offered to help you get your memories back, see,” he says, and his eyes are wide and earnest behind the glasses, “and they didn’t punish me for breaking into Indian Hill. Well, they haven’t punished me_ yet _, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, I suppose…”_

_Ed trails off and looks expectantly at him, as if hoping he’s magically able to make sense of the jumble of words that have been spewed out with little context._

_He isn’t, for the record._

***

 

It’s not looking very good.

Ed is floundering, foot lodged firmly in his mouth, and Oswald looks like he’s about to call for the meeting to end any second now.

He doesn’t know what to say, this time around. The first time they’d met in Arkham, there had been a clear-cut problem, something to address directly, and Ed had fared a lot better in garnering Oswald’s attention.

Perhaps…

“You really don’t remember anything? Anything at all?” he asks.

Oswald scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Evidently not,” he replies disdainfully. “I wouldn’t still be here if I did.”

“Ask, then. I’ll tell you what I know,” Ed says, the question of whether Oswald can put his pride aside for long enough to accept what Ed is offering buried not too far underneath the words.

He’s half-expecting Oswald to laugh in his face, or to return to the question of why he’s _really_ there, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back against the windowsill, gently kneading at his injured knee – it must be hurting a lot, then – and asks Ed, his voice quiet, to tell him about his family.

Ed takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to remember what the Oswald he knew had told him during the long, dark nights in his cell when the only light had been the glow from the courtyard, the only warmth gathered from the memories they’d relayed for each other, about far better times than they were in at that moment.

After a while, he starts talking. He tells Oswald, with the man’s own words for the most part, about his mother and how she took care of him and how much she loved him, about their trip to the fair for his birthday and the cooking, everything good he remembers hearing Oswald’s ghost say.

He doesn’t tell him that Oswald’s father died when he was a baby, that his mother was murdered, that Oswald was dead himself for a while, and hopes the other can refrain from commenting on the fact that he’s clearly omitting something.

And Oswald doesn’t say anything, just watches him with his sharp eyes and listens.

All in all, it takes Ed about ten minutes to relay everything he knows about Oswald’s family, years and years of the other’s life summarized into what now seems like an awfully short story.

His throat is sore by the time he’s done, but he finds he doesn’t care.

Oswald mulls everything over for a minute or so. The thunderclouds have moved in across the bay, torrential downpour covering the window of the cell, the only thing visible a wall of water. There’s low rumbling somewhere in the distance, occasional flashes of lightning, but Oswald doesn’t seem to pay attention to what’s happening behind his back.

“How did we meet?” he asks, looking Ed right in the eye. “You didn’t say anything about yourself in your retelling of my life.”

Ed knows he can’t tell him the real story, about that first night in Arkham and an unexpected cellmate.

So, he picks the next best thing. “I used to work for the police. You came to the station one day and I approached you. You weren’t exactly happy about it, either,” he says and feels a smile fluttering at the corners of his mouth at the memory. “In fact, you were actually kind of rude. You didn’t even like the bit of trivia I told you about penguins and–“

“What did you say?”

“About you being rude? Well, you _were_ , I honestly don’t–“

Oswald waves his hand. “Not _that_ – I don’t care. Penguins?”

Ed’s eyes light up. “Yes, I asked if you knew that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet. And you pretty much ran off after that. Do you remember?”

Oswald looks pensive. “I… I don’t know. Maybe,” he says eventually.

Ed’s heart flutters.

This might work, after all.

“Why penguins, though?” Oswald asks.

Ed laughs, lightly. “Your nickname. They used to call you the Penguin.”

Oswald sputters.

Whatever it is he’s about to say is cut short by Peabody’s arrival.

“See you later,” Ed says as he’s lead away.

Oswald only huffs in response.

 

***

 

_Glimpses of images flit by behind his closed lids._

_It’s not much to go on, not a lot at all, but he remembers the police station, remembers the bullpen and the people rushing around, the faint noise of traffic outside and the chill in the air._

_He remembers a short conversation and his own irritation._

_But he doesn’t remember Ed._

_Doesn’t remember any of the people he saw, in fact, doesn’t remember why he was there or what he was doing._

_The Penguin._

_He thinks about it and the name is indeed familiar, even though a part of him is mortified. He doesn’t know why he would’ve let anyone call him that, but he supposes he can ask Ed._

_Maybe that’s enough, for now._

_It should be, because he didn’t remember anything at all before, not like this._

_But it doesn’t_ feel _like it’s enough._

_Most of what Ed told him, the stories about his mother and his life, sounds like an account about someone else, snapshots of someone else’s life; he doesn’t remember any of it, can’t bring himself to picture it all happening to him._

_It’s hard to try and rebuild an identity based solely on second-hand information, especially if it’s from someone he doesn’t know – he likes Ed well enough, he thinks, certainly better than he likes the personnel in charge of him._

_His instincts warn frantically against placing all his trust in one person, but it’s not like he has a choice. It’s either Ed or Strange, and with or without Strange’s conspicuous absence, Ed is the far better option – far easier to read, and, a part of him must admit, far more pleasant to be around._

_Far better to look at, too, another part of his mind suggests, which he stomps down before he can think about it for too long. It’ll do him no favors to dwell on any soft feelings, whatever they may be, especially when there’s a far more important battle to fight._

_Eventually, his knee cramps from standing so he hobbles over to the table and sits, his back to the wall and his leg stretched out, stares at the rain running down the window and wallows in his misery until the storm is over and they bring him dinner._

_He picks at the food, thinks he could use a drink, thinks about memories he can’t remember as a million questions race through his mind._

_He’s got half a mind to throw the whole tray against the wall, to see the contents splatter against the gray like an abstract painting, to rip apart this lifeless cell they’ve stuffed him in if only to get rid of a fraction of the helpless rage burning inside his chest._

_After a moment of consideration, he does throw the tray against the wall, and watches as it bounces off with a metallic clang, spilling mush that slowly, slowly starts to slither down the wall like vines._

_It’s not nearly as satisfying as he thought it would be, but in the end it does make him feel a little bit better._

***

 

Peabody takes him back to Strange’s office.

The man remains seated at the desk where Ed saw him last, tapping the end of his pen on a dossier. Ed catches only a glimpse, but from what he can see there’s an _AA113_ printed on neat letters in the center of the cover, a small _IH_ on the upper left corner and what looks to be a photograph pinned to the upper right.

Oswald’s file, then.

Interesting.

Strange motions for him to take a seat as Peabody hovers near the doorway.

“Thank you, Ethel, that will be all,” Strange says and Ed makes a mental note of the name; it’s not what he would’ve guessed it to be. More importantly, it could prove useful.

At some point.

Probably.

Ed fights the urge to look over his shoulder as Peabody leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the dossier on the table as he sits down. “It’s his, isn’t it,” he says flatly.

Strange smiles. “Interested, are we? I’m afraid it contains confidential information that you are not authorized to see, no matter how… helpful you may prove to be.”

Ed pushes down the urge to roll his eyes. “Do you know why he doesn’t remember?” he asks instead.

“It’s only natural for the mind to… omit the circumstances surrounding a traumatic experience. Our mutual friend is no different. However, his mind seems to have blocked out everything concerning who he is, along with the trauma,” Strange tells him, as if Ed hadn’t already figured out as much himself. “I will refrain from speculating why in the name of confidentiality.”

Ed does his best to keep his face neutral, but he wants to laugh – to laugh at Strange, at this ridiculous situation, at his own part in it, at the circumstances that have led him here both literally and figuratively.

Strange, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re proving to be quite useful in the progress of restoring his memories, Mr. Nygma.” A pause, as if he’s waiting for Ed to thank him for stating the obvious. “As long as you hold up your end of our bargain, our partnership in this matter will continue.”

“And if I don’t?” Ed asks, unable to help himself although he is more than halfway certain he already knows the gist of the answer. Still, if there’s one thing he knows about Strange by now, it’s that the man loves the sound of his own voice – meaning he might end up saying something that Ed can use… somehow.

Strange’s smile widens even as his eyes narrow. “I do not need to remind you that both you and our mutual friend are expendable, Mr. Nygma. You more so than him; there are plenty of other… methods we can try, should you fail.”

Ed’s stomach turns as he nods.

 

He mulls it over once he’s back in his cell later that night, thinks about Strange’s words.

_You’re proving to be quite useful._

_Quite useful._

_Quite._

Ignoring the flash of annoyance deep in his gut – _of course_ he’s useful, he _knows_ he’s useful to them, probably far more so than anything or anyone else could be – he begins to wonder once more not about the _how_ of the situation but the _why_.

Why does Strange want Oswald to remember?

If Ed was running an operation like the resurrections at Indian Hill, he’d much prefer having subjects whose personalities and histories he could rebuild from scratch to suit his purposes. It would be the logical thing to do in order to be the hand on their leashes.

And yet, no matter how hard he tries to figure it out, he can’t think of a reasonable justification for why Strange would want at least one of his subjects – if the monsters and the bodies he saw downstairs are anything to go by, he has little doubt that there will be others – to remember his previous life.

Unless…

Unless someone else is pulling the strings, meaning it isn’t Strange’s decision at all.

He’s considered the possibility before – funding must come from somewhere, after all – but never has it been _this_ apparent, this obvious, laid out before him like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, tantalizing in their mystery.

More than anything, he wants to _know_ – needs to, even.

Because there must be a _reason_ Strange is trying – succeeding now, too, even if imperfectly – to bring people back from the dead. Moreover, said reason must be connected to whoever is backing the research.

Nobody ever does anything for no reason, indeed.

Yet the question, the conundrum of what lies under Arkham Asylum, still remains.

What – or _who_ , more likely – is behind Indian Hill?

Despite the way he stares at it, the ventilation duct cover above his bed offers no answers, and neither does the sound of the rain on the windowpanes.

If the circumstances were different, if he had only himself to worry about, he might risk further investigation against his better judgement.

 _Might_.

But to risk everything he has right now, meager though it may be…

It’s with these restless thoughts that he finally falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halfway through! yay!

Oswald is sulking.

It’s been two days since their last visit, and what a hellish two days it’s been – Ed isn’t exactly in a good mood himself, even after Jonathan’s demonstration yesterday of what exactly his distraction had been the day Ed broke into Indian Hill; poor Livingston is apparently still catatonic.

Not to say that Ed really cares, if he’s honest, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Moreover, he’s discovered that Oswald’s bad moods are of the particularly infectious sort: the very air in the cell seems to be thick with barely-repressed rage, leaving the room stuffy and uncomfortable. Which, now that he thinks about it, is probably part of the reason Oswald is so cranky in the first place.

There are tracks on the wall of something that looks like solidified gruel, old and dried so tightly to the plaster it may never come off, a testament to both the horrid quality of the food and the building itself.

Oswald himself is the worst part of the room, silently fuming on the bed and barely even looking at Ed, who tries to not take it personally – a feat that’s becoming increasingly difficult by the passing second.

So, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself it’s just like dealing with Oswald back during the first night they met, or like dealing with a particularly ornery cat.

One that might bite, if it gets irritated enough.

 “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he says, and Oswald glares at him as if his very presence is offensive.

“Everything is just _peachy_ ,” Oswald replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ed fights the urge to rub his temples. “I don’t like being here any more than you do, Oswald, but sulking about it isn’t going to help.”

Oswald draws in a sharp breath, sets his shoulders and lifts his chin, eyes blazing.

 _Oh, angry now, is he,_ Ed thinks. _Good_.

“And what do you, Ed, in your _infinite_ wisdom, see as helpful, then?” Oswald asks, and Ed smiles, willfully ignoring the badly veiled insult.

His patience, however, is not infinite. “A breakout plan would be a good place to start,” he says and hopes against hope that Oswald will listen.

Thankfully, _that_ gets his attention: Oswald sits up and Ed can pretty much see the cogs in his head already turning, eyes alight with no small degree of mischief.

It’s almost sad that he has to shut it down before Oswald does or says something they’ll both regret.

“Not _escape_ -escape,” Ed says quickly, widening his eyes and begging whatever powerful forces exist in the Universe that Oswald will understand. He knows their visits are monitored, knows that Oswald must know this too, and that it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The real plan will have to wait.

Oswald deflates slightly, almost imperceptibly – if Ed didn’t know him as well as he does, he wouldn’t be able to see the minute shift at all. 

Fortunately, however, he does.

“Humor me,” he says, offering a small smile.

Oswald looks pensive for a moment before shrugging, which Ed takes as _go ahead_.

“I’ve been thinking about what and why you can’t remember,” he explains, “and part of the reason it’s hard for you to recall your life before… _this_ , might be that you’re in an unfamiliar environment with people you don’t know. Present company excluded, of course.”

“So, what, you’re going to try and convince Strange to let me out?” Oswald laughs humorlessly at that, the sound reverberating off the walls of the cell. “Good luck. I don’t know what he wants from me, but I know he won’t let me leave just because you _asked_.”

“We’ll see about that.”

 

***

 

_Ed must be insane; it’s the only explanation that, ironically enough, is not insane._

_After all, they_ are _stuck in a madhouse._

 _He hasn’t been told this outright, of course, but it’s almost funny that none of them seem to realize that, for one, even though he might be missing most of his memories, he’s not stupid, and secondly, he has a functional pair of ears._ _He can hear the screams and moans at night, the blabbering of the truly insane._

_Ed, fortunately, seems to be more of the harmless variety, but one can never know._

_The quiet, calm-seeming ones are usually the most dangerous, after all._

_He’s still not completely sure if he can trust the man, because sometimes it seems too good to be true, the off chance that one of his friends – surely, he must have had others beside Ed? – shows up in the same institution he’s locked up in for reasons unknown; he can only suspend his disbelief for so long._

_Then again, Ed was obviously aware they were being monitored even now. He’d thought as much himself, of course, considering how prompt the guards usually are in collecting his tray after meals and how both Strange and Peabody seem to show up right as he wakes up._

_It’s good to see that Ed isn’t as clueless as he might occasionally seem._

_Perhaps he’s not lying, after all._

_Perhaps they really were friends before whatever happened to him happened. Otherwise, Ed would’ve surely given up on kindness by now._

_Speaking of. “Why are you here?” he asks when Ed is brought back to him. They’ve been sitting in silence for the past few minutes, tense but not critically so._

_Ed, who has been examining the dried remains of his outburst from a few days back, looks at him, patient as ever. “I’m here to help you.”_

_He scoffs. “So you keep saying. I meant, why are you in a madhouse?”_

_If Ed’s surprised that he’s managed to figure this out, he doesn’t show it. “I killed someone.”_

_A shiver runs down his back. Interesting. “Who?” he asks, the question short and simple but nevertheless heavy in the air._

_“My girlfriend, Miss Kringle,” Ed replies easily, and he looks so detached, so blasé about it that it should be unnerving._

_With a start, he realizes it isn’t._

_“A few others, as well,” Ed adds after a beat._

_He mulls it over and doesn’t ask why – he imagines it bears little to no consequence to his person. Besides, he’s sure Ed had his reasons, whatever they might have been._

_“Why aren’t you in prison if you’re a murderer?” he asks instead, mirroring Ed’s nonchalance._

_“I was declared criminally insane,” Ed says and again, he is calm about it, emotionless even, not a hint of a waver in his voice. “That’s why they sent me here, to Arkham.”_

_He considers the answer for a moment, finally having a name for the place they’re confined in. It sounds familiar, but he doesn’t think he’s been here before – even though, without his memories, he can’t be sure._

_“But you’re not insane,” he says after a while._

_Ed shrugs. “No more than your average Gothamite.”_

_“And that would be…?”_

_“Right, I forgot you don’t remember. Sorry. A citizen of Gotham,” Ed amends and the name sounds so right, so…_

_Beautiful._

_“That’s it, across the water, isn’t it? Gotham,” he says, and Ed nods._

_He gets up to walk over to the window, to look at the reassuring silhouette of the city standing steady against the darkening skyline._

Home.

_Ed watches him, brown eyes soft behind the lenses of his glasses. “You’ll get to go there,” he says, voice quiet. “Anywhere you want. I promise.”_

_He swallows the lump in his throat and nods._

***

 

The conversation with Strange goes about as well as he’d expected.

“I’ve thought you to be many things, Mr. Nygma. Delusional has not yet been one of them,” Strange tells him with a benign smile and narrowed eyes. “But I am beginning to reconsider.”

“It would do him a lot of good,” Ed says, trying his best not to sound like he’s pleading even though he absolutely is. “It might help him remember.”

Strange doesn’t look convinced.

Yet.

It’s fortunate that Peabody is elsewhere, because without her unrelenting shrewd eye and her whispered words of reason, Strange is far easier to sway. Thus, Ed has a decision to make as to whether to lean on his hunch that there are people above Strange that are pulling his strings or to try a different approach.

After a moment’s consideration, he chooses the former.

“Look, I know your work downstairs is very important, not only from a scientific point of view,” he says and Strange cocks his head. “And I think him regaining his memories would benefit you as well as him – perhaps you more so.”

“I’m assuming you’ll want to accompany him?” Strange says, smiling – or baring his teeth, more like.

Ed shrugs. “If that can be arranged,” he says, careful not to sound too hopeful. “It would help him.”

Strange looks at him, eyes boring deep within his core as if the man can see every flicker of every thought he’s ever had. It would be unnerving if he hadn’t already experienced a similar sensation under Jonathan’s gaze, so he holds fast, looks Strange straight in the eye with the most innocuous expression he can muster.

More than anything, he just wants to get out of the asylum, even if only for a little while. The confinement is slowly starting to get to him, the unbearable monotony of his surroundings growing more and more agonizing with each passing day. Having Oswald along for the outing would be icing on the cake, especially if it might jog his memory.

If he can get Strange to agree, it’s a win-win situation for everyone.

“I will… consider your offer,” Strange says eventually, lacing his fingers together on top of the desk. “Rest assured, though, Mr. Nygma – if you fail, you will not be seeing him again. If I were you, I’d consider very carefully whether this little outing you’ve requested is worth it.”

Ed nods, and doesn’t say that there’s no question whether it’s worth it or not.

 _Fortune favors the bold_ , Oswald had told him a long time ago, and he’s finally starting to believe it.

 

***

 

A week passes by without a word from Strange.

Ed gets to visit Oswald thrice in the meanwhile, each visit peppered with slight tension as they wait. On a brighter note, though, Oswald has taken to asking about the city every now and then between questions about the asylum and about Ed himself.

For reasons Ed can’t begin to fathom, though, he never asks about his own life.

As days pass by, Oswald’s cell looks more and more unruly, the furniture tossed about by what Ed can only assume are rage-fueled tantrums: every time he visits, the lighter items in the cell seem to be in different places. There are more food stains adorning the walls as well, an abstract painting in semi-edible slop that the powers-that-be deign to serve to the inmates.

It seems his words about sulking not helping haven’t had much of an effect – not that Ed really expected them to.

It still stings just a bit.

They sit quietly for the most part during the last visit, and Ed lets himself enjoy it; he’s been unable to stay awake long enough to see the time of night when even the rowdiest of inmates settle down and the asylum is blissfully quiet around him.

 

Strange’s answer finally comes in the form of Peabody at the end of the week, accompanied by two guards and a sour look.

“I don’t need to remind you of what will happen if you try to escape,” she tells Ed as he’s cuffed and led through the halls of the asylum in the evening. Faces peek out of the observation windows on cell doors, watching them pass by.

Ed doesn’t say anything to her in return, just tries to quiet the fluttering of his heart and his breathing.

He’s done it.

They’re actually _going_.

They load him into an inconspicuous town car, one of the guards settling in the back with him while Peabody takes the passenger seat beside a driver in civilian clothes.

“Where is he?” Ed asks, a jolt running through his chest.

Peabody doesn’t respond.

 

***

 

_It seems Ed has delivered on his promise, after all._

_At least a part of it, anyway, because he’s cuffed and taken outside of the asylum, pushed into the back seat of a car with a guard who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else._

_Strange sits in the front, the ever-present smug smile firmly set on his face. “We’re taking a risk with you,” he says, looking straight ahead. “Remember that.”_

_“Where are we going?” he asks in between trying to get a good look at the buildings behind them._

_“To your mother’s home,” Strange replies, tone perfectly pleasant. “If you would prefer not to, however, there is still time to change your mind.”_

_He doesn’t respond, just clenches his hands into fists and sets his shoulders as he stares out the window._

***

 

The drive is shorter than he expected, barely half an hour.

They’re in the outskirts of the Narrows, which at least explains what their destination is – if he’s not wrong, and he rarely is, they’re going to Oswald’s childhood home. He’s never been there himself, of course, but he remembers the description of the small but relatively comfortable space, even though it seems like a lifetime ago that he heard the words.

“You get fifteen minutes,” Peabody says, speaking for the first time in a while. “We’ll be monitoring you the whole time, so don’t even think about attempting anything.”

Ed nods and wonders if the woman really does think he’s stupid or if she simply enjoys constantly making vague threats.

The guard leads him upstairs to the apartment where Strange is already waiting, accompanied by Oswald and another guard.

“I presume Ms. Peabody has explained the situation, Mr. Nygma,” Strange says to Ed, hands clasped behind his back. It never fails to take Ed by surprise just how short the man is, even shorter than Oswald – seeing them standing there together with a guard who’s a good head taller than both is almost comical.

Almost.

“Ten minutes, monitored, so you’ve said,” Ed says and tries not to let his annoyance slip into his voice; it’s like they think they’re dealing with children with no comprehension of the world around them.

“Good,” Strange says. “Remember our deal.”

Ed gives a curt nod in response, and both Strange and the two guards leave the apartment, locking the door. As if a locked door would stop Ed, but he’ll let them hold on to their erroneous beliefs for a little while longer.

He takes a quick look at the clock on the dusty mantelpiece. It reads half past seven and the darkness outside appeared to indicate something similar. It’s hard to tell inside the apartment, though, with the curtains drawn and the only light coming from a dusty, moth-eaten floor lamp.

It is a cozy apartment, even if the air within is stale – unsurprising, considering its original occupant died months ago and, by the look of it, no one has been here since.

Ed turns to look at Oswald, who is standing in the middle of the room with a lost expression. “So, this is home,” he says, trying to gauge Oswald’s mood.

For his part, Oswald doesn’t say anything, instead taking a few steps towards the sofa with a small end table next to it. There is a beautifully framed set of photographs on the small table, all of them of Oswald: they appear to be posed portraits, and, if the similarity between the photographs and their subject is to be believed, all are relatively recent.

And yet, they look nothing like the Oswald that is standing here with him now.

Oswald seems to agree, as he stares at the images of himself without even a faint spark of recognition. “That’s me, isn’t it?” he says, eyes glued to the most prominent of the portraits – a picture of him in an old-fashioned suit with his hair combed flat against his head. It’s a… severe contrast with his current disheveled appearance. “Wow.”

Ed is at a loss for words. “I’m sure there are more photographs around here somewhere, if you want to have a look,” he manages to say after a while.

Oswald turns towards him, and he looks so small in the low light, far more fragile than Ed’s ever seen him, hands cuffed in front of him and his frame swallowed by his gray jumpsuit. “I want to see her,” he says.

“I’ll find you a picture,” Ed tells him. “Have a look around in the meanwhile, see if you recognize anything.”

Oswald stares at him for a moment before nodding curtly, shuffling off towards the doors on the opposite end of the living room.

 

***

 

_The apartment smells musty._

_No one has been here in a long time – for weeks, if not months._

_He tries very hard not to think about what that might mean about the fate of his mother, the woman he still can’t quite remember except in occasional flashes – whispered words, warm hands, the smell of fresh linen and spices._

_Although the framed portraits back seem to suggest he was an upstanding young man, the conspicuous absence of his mother and his current predicament are reaffirming his suspicion that he was anything but._

_He’s drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of Ed going through drawers and browsing bookshelves for photo albums._

_Somehow, he knows the albums won’t be in the living room. He says as much to Ed, who in return prompts him to keep looking around the apartment, although the weary sigh that accompanies the words indicates his own frustration._

_Still, he doesn’t have any better ideas himself, so he goes to his own bedroom first, muscle memory guiding him to the right door._

_The room is small but comfortable, housing a neatly-made twin-sized bed against the back wall with a dresser next to it. Most of the space left is taken by a large armoire containing a magnificent collection of clothing: suits in elegant cuts, crisp dress shirts and a selection of waistcoats in dark, rich colors. He runs his hands over the fabric, admiring the clothes – they seem far more comfortable to him than the cheap, scratchy jumpsuit he’s currently in._

_To be wearing his own clothes again would be–_

_He reaches out and is promptly reminded of the cuffs around his wrists._

_A flash of irritation runs through his chest._

_If he only had something sharp, something small…_

_Looking around the room, he notices a small box on top of the dresser next to the armoire. He walks over and opens it, albeit with difficulty. Within, he finds a small collection of tie pins within; they’ll do nicely, he thinks._

_In the end, opening the cuffs is a lot easier than he’d expected it to be._

_***_

 

It seems almost like a violation of privacy to be in Oswald’s mother’s room – disrespectful, somehow, even though Ed is only there to look for photos.

His search finally yields results when he discovers a worn album tucked away in a drawer, and he takes it from its place, careful to disrupt the rest of the items within as little as possible.

It's almost like being in a mausoleum – which, now that he thinks about it, isn’t too far from the truth.

He leaves the room quickly, offering a silent apology to its owner’s ghost for disturbing her rest, wherever she may be, and ends up back in the living room, setting the album down on the sofa before taking a seat beside it.

It’s a few minutes before the door to Oswald’s room opens and he steps out.

The first thing Ed notices is the lack of cuffs around his wrists. The second thing, although if he’s honest, it was really the first, is that the jumpsuit he’s used to seeing is gone and, in its place is a lovely suit, complete with a purple brocade waistcoat and a matching tie.

He’s about to ask how Oswald got the cuffs off when the man raises his right hand, a small, glinting object gently held between his fingers.

“I found a collection of tie pins,” Oswald says with a triumphant smile. “Care to borrow one?”

Ed glances at the clock. It’s ten minutes until eight o’clock. They’ve been here for twenty minutes instead of the promised fifteen – and no one has come by to collect them.

So, he shrugs and reaches out.

Oswald steps closer and hands the tie pin over before noticing the photo album on the sofa next to Ed’s thigh. “You found it.”

Ed nods. “Have a look while I take care of the cuffs.”

Oswald gingerly takes the album and sits down in the puffy armchair opposite the sofa.

As much as he’d like to keep an eye on Oswald and see whether he recognizes any pictures, Ed keeps his attention on the cuffs. It takes a bit of work, but with a little while of wiggling the tie pin around in the lock, the cuffs fall off easily enough.

Strange should really invest in better handcuffs – but, at least, now he can return to the matter at hand with his hands free.

The thought is silly enough that a huff of laughter escapes from him, drawing attention from Oswald, who sends him a questioning look.

Ed coughs. “Anything?” he asks, carefully serious.  

Oswald frowns. “Maybe. I–” he shakes his head– “I don’t know.”

Ed supposes it’s good enough for now.

He stands up and stretches, allowing himself some time to take in the room around him.

It’s both spacious and small at the same time, heavy curtains covering the windows and fine layer of dust on most surfaces. The interior is quaint, if a bit dated, but it’s very much a space he can see Oswald living in with his mother. There is also a surprisingly nice selection of literature, he notes as he walks over to one of the built-in bookshelves tucked away in the back wall.

There’s a soft gasp and he turns away from the shelf and back towards the sofa, where Oswald is staring at the album with his mouth slightly open.

“That’s her,” Oswald says, voice shaky. “That’s my mother. I… I _recognize_ her.”

Ed can’t help the beaming smile that sneaks onto his face. “You remember,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

Oswald takes a shaky breath, eyes welling ever so slightly. “Not everything, but… enough to know.”

There’s a burst of warmth deep within Ed’s chest; perhaps everything isn’t over after all.

At least, not just yet.

“She’s dead,” Oswald states calmly, almost nonchalant as if he was talking about the weather.

The warmth in Ed’s chest disappears, replaced by a cold vise around his heart. “Yes,” he replies simply.

Oswald is upright in a second; before Ed can even register what’s happening, there’s a small knife at his throat.

In his surprise, the only thing he can manage is wondering where it came from.

“You lied to me,” Oswald hisses and presses the knife closer to Ed’s skin, near enough to draw blood – he can feel the slim, warm trickle of it down his neck.

 _The body remembers even when the mind does not_ , he thinks and wants to laugh.

“Only by omission,” Ed admits, because there’s nothing else he can do. “I had a good reason – I can’t tell you here, not if we’re being observed… Although considering they gave us fifteen minutes and it’s been almost twice as long, I’m beginning to think we’ve caught a very lucky break indeed.”

The sting of the knife against his neck doesn’t ease. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand,” Oswald says, and his voice is trembling; whether from rage or hurt or both, Ed doesn’t know.

“I can help you, Oswald,” he replies, and, for the first time since the knife appeared, it occurs to him that he could very well actually die right here. “I can’t make you believe that, but tell me this: I am neither bought nor sold but am more valuable than gold; I am built but not by hand – what am I?”

Oswald frowns at him, the knife moving ever so slightly away from his neck. “Is this… Are you asking me a riddle?” he says, the same incredulous note in his voice as the first time he’d said the words.

Ed repeats the riddle.

“The answer is trust,” Oswald says after a while.

Ed smiles. “Correct. I’m asking for yours.”

Oswald frowns at him some more before finally, finally withdrawing the knife with a huff. Ed presses his fingers to his throat for a moment before taking them away. There is a relatively small amount of blood, indicating a non-lethal cut – nothing some bandages and time can’t fix.

Oswald watches him for a moment longer before going over to the kitchen and opening a cupboard. Taking out a small first-aid kit, he examines at the contents for a moment before getting some bandages and a tiny bottle of hydrogen peroxide, bringing them over to Ed.

He hands them over silently and waits while Ed cleans and dresses the wound the best he can without a mirror. “What now?” he asks once Ed is done.

“We’ll get out of here,” Ed replies and feels the bandage on his throat shift uncomfortably. While the cut isn’t very deep, it’s long and partially over his larynx; Ed has no desire to die because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut after his throat was almost sliced open.

Oswald looks at the bandage and there’s something like regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t apologize. “I’ll pack my things,” he says instead and heads back to his room.

Ed sits down on the sofa and feels a shudder down his spine.

For the first time in forever, he wonders if he’s made the right decision.

 

***

 

_His mother is dead._

_Ed had lied to him, and he could’ve – would’ve, should’ve – killed him for it._

_His mother is dead._

_Ed had lied to him, and he could’ve – would’ve, should’ve – killed him for it._

_His mother is dead._

_Ed had lied to him, and he could’ve – would’ve, should’ve – killed him for it._

The thoughts bounce around unpleasantly in Oswald’s mind like a dissonant chorus as he packs his things – a change of clothes and the photo album. Besides the money he knows to be stashed in a kitchen drawer, there isn’t anything else he wants in the apartment that he can’t come back for later if need be. Now that he thinks about it, the things in the bag are also something he can come back for, so he leaves the bag sitting on the bed.

It’s almost funny how, after all the good things from the past failed to prompt anything other than wisps and flickers, the key to solidifying a sense of his identity was an act of violence. He doesn’t remember everything yet, but he remembers enough.

He knows his name now, knows his mother’s name, knows what happened to his leg to make him limp, knows why his nickname is the Penguin and why he doesn’t hate it, knows this apartment.

Most importantly, though, he knows he’s a killer.

He thinks about the feel of the knife in his hand, how his fingers gripped the handle just so, how he knew the right amount of pressure to apply to make his point.

_His mother is dead._

It’s a curious feeling, knowing who he is – not remembering, exactly, but _knowing_.

He turns off the light as he leaves his bedroom, eyes travelling right to Ed, sitting on the sofa and looking mildly shell-shocked.

If he truly is Oswald’s friend as he says…

 _He asked for trust,_ he reminds himself, and walks past the sofa to the kitchenette. He opens a drawer and fetches a small knife, not a folding one like his own but a simple steak knife. It should be good enough, provided that Ed is capable of using it.

Discreetly, he picks up the little box housing what little remains of his savings and tucks it in his pocket.

_His mother is dead._

He returns to the living room after that, and hands the knife over to Ed without a word.

For his part, Ed’s eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses. “Thank… you?” he says, staring at the knife and at Oswald in turn.

“I thought you said you’d killed people,” Oswald replies, barely managing to suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

For his part, Ed grimaces. “I have,” he says, gaze focused on the thing like it offends him. “it’s just… not with a _steak knife_.”

Unable to stop himself at this point, Oswald rolls his eyes. “Be glad I didn’t give you a butter knife. Now, let’s go.”

_His mother is dead._

Ed stands up, holding the knife tentatively in his hand, and makes his way to the front door. He tries it and finds it locked; turns and backtracks, grabbing the tie pin from the end table before returning to the door.

_His mother is dead._

Within a minute or so, the front door pops open.

“I _do_ have a key,” Oswald says and Ed… blushes? Or, at the very least, looks awkwardly reddish.

They do not have time for this.

Oswald sighs and nudges him out of the way before peering into the corridor. Finding it empty, he says, “It’s clear,” only to turn and find that Ed’s been at his shoulder the entire time.

Ed, the tips of his ears still red, only offers a small smile. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

_His mother is dead._

_Ed had lied to him, and he could’ve – would’ve, should’ve – killed him for it._

He doesn’t know why he didn’t.

 

***

 

To say Ed is uneasy with the current development of events would be an understatement.

He clutches the steak knife as they make their way down the stairs, through the dimly-lit hallways to the back of the house, Oswald walking ahead with all the confidence of someone who knows where he’s going.

Ed supposes it’s easier for Oswald, whose absence from Arkham can’t exactly be proven; he doubts the other is listed in any official documents as an inmate.

For himself, however…

He needs new clothes and fast – wandering the streets in an Arkham inmate uniform isn’t exactly the best of ideas, even if it seems like nobody is after them right now. And they need to get away from here as quickly as possible – he has no idea why the Arkham staff have left them behind, but there’s no guarantee they won’t be back.

He says as much to Oswald, who eyes the striped jumpsuit with distaste and nods before opening a side door leading into the alleyway behind the building.

“Wait here,” he says and tucks the knife in his pocket before walking off; in pursuit of what, Ed doesn’t know.

 _Great_ , Ed thinks, tightening his grip on the steak knife. He’s alone in an unfamiliar environment without a plan and with someone who had almost slit his throat not five minutes ago.

The good thing is, he supposes, that he isn’t in the worst part of the Narrows. Unfortunately, it’s about the only good thing, because he’s standing alone, slightly injured, and barely armed in exactly the type of skeevy alleyway where one gets mugged and left bleeding out on the pavement.

Unless Oswald kills him first.

He touches the bandage on his neck and huffs a small laugh.

The thought isn’t an appealing one, exactly, but it would still be better than death at the hands of a random stranger – at least then his death would mean something.

Maybe.

A few minutes pass by and anxious fear starts creeping in. With every beat of his heart, the idea that Oswald has made his escape and left him behind settles further and further in, constricting his breathing and setting his mind abuzz with increasingly elaborate scenarios, all of which culminate in him getting killed or, worse, getting dragged back to the cesspit of misery called Arkham Asylum.

Ed mulls over the possibilities until deliverance shows up in Oswald’s lurching form, carrying an armful of clothes that he promptly tosses over.

“The best I could do on short notice. I’ll go get us a car,” he says nonchalantly before turning to leave again. “Come out of the alley when you’re done.”

Ed wants to kick himself – he’d asked for Oswald’s trust and yet had none for him when the tables were turned. He’s thought himself to be many things, but a hypocrite is rarely one of them.

So, he retreats into the stairwell for a semblance of privacy and sets down his steak knife where he can easily reach it. He changes clothes quickly, stripping out of the striped uniform and pulling on the lumpy sweater and baggy sweatpants Oswald had gotten him before picking the knife back up again.

It’s not exactly his best look, but it’s far better than the Arkham attire.

He’d like better shoes as well, but he supposes it will have to wait.

He leaves the building for the second time and chucks the discarded uniform into a nearby dumpster before walking out of the alleyway onto the main street where there’s a car idling with Oswald sitting at the wheel.

“Where are we going?” Ed asks as he climbs into the passenger seat.

Oswald smiles. “To see an old friend.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is, i think, the first chapter where i've actually added a scene in the rewrite: it's a short one, but still. 
> 
> if you've stuck with me this far, thank you. this chapter is where things really start rolling, i think. c:

As Ed and Oswald drive off, in an unmarked sedan on a street-corner nearby, a man in a black suit picks up his phone and dials a number he’s required to know by heart.

A few seconds later, he gets his reply.

_Let them go._

He puts the phone down and starts the car.

Miles away, in another unmarked car, Ethel Peabody frowns as she looks at her employer. “Must we release Nygma as well?” she asks, and the man sitting next to her only smiles.

“Now, now, my dear,” he says, eyes bright behind red-tinted glasses. “Any good experiment requires a certain sense of… faith. After all, _results_ are what we need – and the progress we’ve seen thanks to the presence of a liaison is promising indeed. Moreover, the return to a natural environment is simply the next step in the rehabilitation process, wouldn’t you agree?”

It’s obvious he wants her to – and while Ethel only narrows her eyes in response, she doesn’t protest the matter further.

It’s out of their hands now, in any case.

*******

The drive is quiet at first.

Oswald makes a sharp right turn and Ed sends out a quick prayer to whatever forces govern the Universe – not for the first time during the drive – that they don’t hit anything.

Or any _one_.

While he can admit he’s not exactly the most cautious driver himself, Oswald really takes the phrase _reckless driver_ to another level. And he must notice Ed’s discomfort – how could he not, when Ed is certain his eyes are bugging out and his heart is beating at twice the normal rate, his hands gripping the dashboard like a lifeline.

“Relax, will you?” Oswald says after taking another sharp right.

The steak knife Oswald had given him is in the backseat, sticking out from one of the seat cushions in an alarming accusatory fashion.

It seems to be saying the same thing, but Ed has a hard time fulfilling the request – or command, or whatever it is. “Do you even have a driver’s license?” he asks instead, his tone more terse than usual to cover up his unease.

Oswald scoffs – and doesn’t answer the question.

“Good heavens,” Ed mumbles under his breath, closing his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths.

If Oswald heard him, he doesn’t say anything about it; instead, he tells Ed they have twenty minutes left to go and if Ed intends to emerge from the car alive at their destination, he had better start explaining why he’d lied.

Ed has the urge to insist he hadn’t _lied_ , had just kept certain facts to himself and fully intended to share them once the opportunity presented itself, but sees the firm set of Oswald’s jaw and the coldness in his eyes and figures it’s not worth fighting over.

At least not while confined in a moving vehicle that Oswald is driving.

So, he talks about how he’d ended up at the asylum, relays what he knows about Oswald’s mother’s death, about Strange making monsters and/or resurrecting people in the basement of Arkham Asylum and how Oswald himself is one of them.

And, after some consideration, he admits he’d only met Oswald once before the asylum – that their second first meeting was within the walls of Arkham, a few weeks before their third, and oh how he wants to laugh, because three first meetings is more than enough to last him the rest of his life.

“So, that’s the truth. As far as I know, that is,” Ed finishes about ten minutes later once he’s finally laid everything out on the metaphorical table.

Oswald doesn’t say anything, keeping his eyes on the road and making turns every now and then to reach whatever their destination is.

“Well?” Ed asks when it becomes apparent Oswald isn’t going to break the silence.

“You want to know if I believe you,” Oswald says, turning his head slightly to glance at Ed, the words more a statement than a question – and a correct one. “I don’t know. Yet.”

Ed nods, doing his best to hide his disappointment. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

They sit in silence for a while and Ed keeps himself looking forward even though he wants to _look_ , to see if he’s ruined everything by virtue of omission. Then again, there’s a nagging thought at the back of his mind that if he had, he wouldn’t be alive enough to do any looking at all – but that’s neither here nor there.

“There’s just one more thing,” Oswald says after a while, once they seem to be nearing their destination; the car is finally, blissfully, slowing down to a more appropriate speed for urban traffic. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” Ed says without thinking.

“Never lie to me again,” Oswald says, his voice quiet but harsh. He stops the car in front of a row of small, decrepit-looking warehouses before looking at Ed properly for the first time in half an hour.

Ed swallows the lump in his throat.

“I promise,” he says, but it feels hollow.

 

***

 

Oswald is hinging his bets on Zsasz being home.

There’s no one else he can go to – Jim Gordon is eliminated by the simple fact of Ed’s presence; he doesn’t know where any of his old crew are or if any of them are even still alive, let alone if they’re available; for the moment, he doesn’t want to know which rock Butch Gilzean has crawled under in his absence, the filthy traitor.

That leaves only Zsasz as a possible ally, and he desperately needs one – and who better than a professional hitman he vaguely remembers being friendly with? Besides, during the drive he has thought of several jobs Zsasz will be sure to have fun with, so an alliance would be a win-win situation for everyone.

Well, probably not for the people said jobs concern, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

He glances at Ed walking beside him and a part of him still wonders if he should’ve killed Ed back at the apartment. Or, come to think of it, he could’ve simply left him behind in the alleyway and set out by himself.

It would’ve certainly made things easier.

Another part of him, however, is revolted at the thought – after everything they’ve been through, it wouldn’t be a fitting end for someone who has helped him get back on his feet. And it’s not like he had a habit of making life easier for himself in the past, so… in a way, it’s not even surprising he’s letting Ed live.

At least he thinks so.

The thoughts linger at the back of his mind like a bunch of persistent flies, irritating and insistent – but there’s no point in puzzling over the past when the immediate future is much more concerning. He’ll have time to think about his choices, whether they be smart or stupid, sometime later. What needs to be done right now is getting off the streets and somewhere he can plan his next move.

So, he leads Ed to a sheet metal gate nestled in-between two warehouses a block or so away and presses the call button.

“Zsasz, it’s Penguin. Open up.”

He waits a beat and when nothing happens, closes his eyes, takes a calming breath and grits his teeth. “Please.”

The gate buzzes open and Oswald ushers his companion into the courtyard.

Zsasz is waiting by the front door of his converted warehouse, dressed in his customary black gear and armed to the teeth. “I thought you were dead,” he tells Oswald matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and frowning – at least Oswald assumes he’s frowning. It’s kind of hard to tell with Zsasz.

“I was for a while,” Oswald replies. “I got better.”

Zsasz smiles. “It’s good to see you, man. I was just about to head out, actually, but–”

Ed clears his throat and Zsasz’s gaze turns somewhere above Oswald’s shoulder.

Oswald can’t help but roll his eyes.

He’ll have to talk to Ed about the hovering; it’s getting ridiculous.

 “Who’s this guy?” Zsasz asks, narrowing his eyes and moving his hand ever so slightly toward one of the guns holstered on his hip.

“No one you need to worry about. Ed, this is Victor Zsasz. Zsasz, this is Ed,” Oswald says, glancing back at Ed to motion him forward.

Zsasz narrows his eyes even further. “I’ve seen you before.”

Ed lets out a laugh with a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of nervousness in it. “I used to work for the police. Not anymore, though.”

Zsasz nods knowingly. “They have terrible employee benefits.”

Ed frowns at the comment as Zsasz approaches and shakes his hand.

Oswald fights the laughter rising in his throat. “Listen, Zsasz,” he says, allowing Ed a little break to gather his thoughts. “Can we stay here for the night? I have a few jobs for you – and I know how much you love getting more tally marks.”

Zsasz grins, obviously thrilled at the prospect.

How predictable.

“ _Mi casa es su casa_ and all that,” Zsasz tells them and steps aside to let them enter the building.

That’s one problem taken care of, at least for now.

 

***

 

If Ed had ever needed to imagine what a professional hitman’s house looked like, in some ways it would’ve looked exactly like the house Victor Zsasz lives in: firearms and ammo on every available flat surface, with the remainder of the space housing an impressive collection of knives. There are swords, too, lovingly set on neat rows along the walls, and what looks like a bazooka propped up against the black leather sofa.

But there’s also bright neon lights, painting the interior of the place an array of different, pulsing shades, and colorful artwork adorning what little wall space is left from the sword collection. There are flowers, too, for some reason: bright sunflowers – _Helianthus annuus_ – and spotted orange lilies – _Lilium lancifolium_ – and what look like red daisies, most likely a variation of _Gerbera jamesonii_.

Ed’s head feels exhausted and achy already, and he’s only been here for a few minutes at most. Briefly, he wonders how Zsasz manages to live here amongst all the screaming colors and not have a constant migraine – then again, perhaps it’s why he enjoys killing so much.

Oswald, for his part, doesn’t seem bothered in the least; if his lack of reaction is anything to go by, he’s been here before.

Zsasz disappears through an open doorway into the kitchen. “You guys want anything to eat?” he shouts. “I made spaghetti earlier when the girls came by and there’s still some left. Or you can make yourself sandwiches.”

“Spaghetti is fine, thank you,” Oswald shouts back, voice echoing through the large living room. “You got anything to drink?”

“Yeah, I think so. Hang on…” Zsasz replies. The tell-tale rattling of cabinet doors follows, and Ed can’t stop a giggle of laughter from escaping his throat.

Oswald turns to look at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ed says, desperately trying to hold back the rest of his laughter. “It’s just… I could’ve died several times tonight, and now I’m standing in the living room of a killer-for-hire, waiting for him to heat up leftovers.”

Oswald cocks his head and looks at Ed as if he doesn’t understand what the joke is.

And, to be honest, Ed doesn’t really know himself, either, but the shock and stress from the past two hours are finally catching up with him to culminate in hysterical laughter. “Did you know that pasta didn’t even originate in Italy?” he says, voice choked through the giggles. “The Chinese had already had pasta for thousands of years, but everyone still thinks it’s the Italians that came up with it.”

Oswald only stares at him, brows furrowed.

Ed pauses for a second to try and catch his breath, but the words spill from his lips quicker than he can think, accompanied by hollow laughter. “I get passed among men and build without growing, I serve to injure from a source unknowing – what am I?”

“Hey,” Oswald says, stepping closer.

Ed can’t do anything but keep laughing as he repeats the riddle.

“Ed, _stop_ ,” Oswald says, more forcefully this time. “No one will think to look for either of us here.”

The words don’t really do anything, but Ed’s starting to run out of breath – and Oswald takes his pause as encouragement. “We’ll figure everything out tomorrow,” he tells Ed before turning back towards the open kitchen door and calling for Zsasz to get out a glass of water, a spoon, and some sugar while he’s at it.

“Go the dining room,” Zsasz shouts back. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”

There’s the telltale beep of a microwave timer being set and the sound of dishes rattling as Oswald takes hold of Ed’s sweater sleeve and tugs him away from the loud, overwhelming brightness of the living room.

The décor is much more muted in the dining room, Ed notes through the small, hiccup-y giggles that escape his mouth every now and then as he’s led to take a seat at the sleek, round metal-and-glass table. A small selection of sweet-smelling peonies – _Paeonia lactiflora_ – and lilac blossoms – _Syringa vulgaris_ – is placed in a small crystalline vase in the middle of the table, and, unlike in the living room, the arrangement is not overshadowed by blaring-bright neon.

Ed keeps his eyes on the flowers as he sits down, small, breathless chuckles still escaping from his mouth every now and then.

Oswald looks at him for a moment before releasing his hold on Ed’s sweater sleeve. “I’ll be right back, okay? Stay here,” he says and makes his way to the kitchen, where there’s a clang of empty bottles being knocked over. Soon after, the sounds of a muted conversation take its place.

About a minute later, Oswald re-emerges, holding a glass of clear liquid.

“Zsasz doesn’t own a kettle to boil water for tea – apparently, he refuses to drink _leaf water_ –” Oswald rolls his eyes, setting the glass down in front of him– “so this will have to do.”

Ed eyes the glass suspiciously. “What is it?” he asks, voice scratchy.

Oswald offers a small smile. “An old childhood favorite, if memory serves. Mother used to give it to me when I was upset – it’s a few teaspoons of sugar stirred into a glass of water. A dirt-cheap and convenient remedy for distress, really,” he explains. “Try it. You’ll feel better.”

Ed complies, trying his best not to spill it everywhere as he lifts the glass with a shaky hand. He drinks the water – it is sweet, but not unpleasantly so – and sets the glass back down on the table once it’s empty.

“Thank you,” he tells Oswald, the words muddled by the lump in his throat. He finds he _is_ feeling a little bit better, even if the rational part of his mind reminds him it’s just from the sugary drink triggering the release of serotonin.

But, somehow, it doesn’t feel like it’s just _that_.

Oswald is about to say something but stops himself as Zsasz enters the room, skillfully carrying two large plates of steaming-hot spaghetti and a large, full bottle of wine at the same time.

 

***

 

Zsasz sets the bottle down first. “The best I could do right now.” Before Oswald can ask, he continues. “It’s ruby port. No need to get snappy – I know what you like, boss.”

Oswald hadn’t, but it’s nice to have another piece of the puzzle that is his identity. Instead of voicing the thought, however, he says: “Some glasses and cutlery would be nice, too.”

“I _knew_ I forgot something. Be right back,” Zsasz replies, setting the plates on the table before dashing back to the kitchen, shaking his head as he mumbles something to himself.

Oswald only sighs at that as his attention turns back to the rest of the room. Ed looks terrible, disheveled and uncomfortable in his borrowed clothes – small, somehow, despite his considerable height.

“Aren’t you going to sit?” he asks Oswald, voice still slightly shaky.

 _It’s like corralling cats_ , Oswald thinks before taking a seat across the table from Ed in reply to the question. _Actually, speaking of cats…_

Fatigue catches up with him once he’s no longer standing, the events of the evening finally registering the second he realizes they’re finally safe. Well, _relatively_ safe, but Zsasz has been perfectly pleasant so far – all of which means Oswald’s no more worried in his presence than usual.

What’s more important, though, is figuring out a way out of the mess they’re in. It’s uncertain whether Strange will come after them – well, after Ed, most likely, given that there’s actual proof that Ed isn’t where he’s supposed to be. It’s a fact that has occurred to Ed himself, it seems, if his quasi-breakdown is something to go by.

If it were anyone else, Oswald would’ve already booted him out of the house…

But it’s _Ed_ , and Oswald finds himself feeling oddly protective. It’s an unfamiliar feeling and one that is, surprisingly enough, not entirely unpleasant; after all, Ed had helped him without expecting much in return, so it’s only fair that he returns the favor.

Naturally, the thought of favors traded leads him to question Ed’s motivations once more.

The fact that Ed has been risking his personal wellbeing for _his_ sake is something that’s both flattering and uncomfortable in equal measure – especially since Ed hasn’t gotten anything other than vague threats and personal injury in return.

With a tinge of something that tastes almost like sadness, Oswald realizes he’s allowed himself to forget how dangerous it is to let his guard down time and time again, all because of Ed.

He’s yanked out of his thoughts by noises coming from the kitchen that, somehow, speak of Zsasz looking for – and failing to locate – a set of crystal wine glasses from his ancestral home.

Beside him, Ed looks towards the kitchen, eyes wide, hands nervously clenching and unclenching.

The man obviously needs a distraction.

“Why did you insist on helping me?” Oswald asks, and Ed’s gaze turns to him. At the look of confusion, Oswald elaborates. “Back at the asylum. You could’ve left well enough alone, but you didn’t. Why did you stay?”

It’s a question he keeps asking, and one he’ll keep asking until he gets an answer he’s satisfied with.

Ed studies his face for a moment. “I am more precious than gold, but I cannot be bought, can never be sold, only earned if I am sought; if I’m broken, I can still be mended; at birth I cannot start nor by death am I ended. What am I?” he asks, and there’s _something_ in his voice that Oswald doesn’t know how to name.

Ignoring that, Oswald fights the urge to roll his eyes. “A riddle? _Again_?”

“Do you give up?” Ed replies, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Ed…”

“The answer is friendship. You told me yourself, once: nobody does anything without a reason. If you must know what mine is, it’s that,” Ed says, and there’s an irritating burst of warmth somewhere behind Oswald’s ribs. “You asked me the same question once before,” he continues, smiling fully now, “back when you were still… physically out of commission, so to speak.”

“What was your answer then?” Oswald asks, heartbeat fluttering in his chest for reasons he can’t quite fathom. A part of his brain screams warnings at him, shouts _danger danger danger_ – warnings he finds himself wanting to ignore, and the thought terrifies him.

“I said I helped you because I wanted to, and that’s still the truth,” Ed says, voice soft. “I used to think that our friendship was doomed from the start – I had no idea how long you’d stick around for, and you were _dead,_ so we were never on equal ground to start with. But now…”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish the thought, because Zsasz exhibits yet another burst of incredible timing as he blunders into the dining room holding two glasses – the crystal ones, of course – and two pairs of forks and knives.

“Finally found them in a box at the back of the counter drawer. Whoda thunk?” he says with a bright smile, nodding at the glasses and oblivious to the fact Oswald is staring at him like a deer stares at approaching headlights.

Whatever the moment was, whatever its potential, it’s gone now.

A glance in Ed’s direction reveals a similar expression, but Ed is much quicker to mask it with a pleasant, if strained, smile. “They’re lovely,” he says, and Zsasz’s smile grows wider.

“Family heirloom. One of the few things I managed to snatch from the estate before foreclosure,” he tells Ed, setting the glasses on the table before turning his eyes to Oswald. “Anything else, boss?”

Oswald shakes his head, offering a small smile to convey gratitude he doesn’t really feel. “We’ll take it from here.”

Zsasz shrugs. “Suit yourselves. I’ll be heading out, got stuff to take care of. You know how it goes,” he says, stealing a quick glance at Ed – there’s an unspoken question in that look, Oswald knows that much, but he has no idea as to what it is.

“Try to get word out to Cat that I’m looking for her, if you’d be so kind,” Oswald says as Zsasz stops in the living room to pick out a few more weapons to bring along, as if he doesn’t already have more than enough.

Then again, far be it for Oswald to criticize the decisions of a man armed with knives and guns when he himself has nothing but a small pocket knife and a tie pin at his disposal at the moment.

Zsasz gives a small salute. “Will do, boss.”

Ed has been suspiciously quiet, staring at the plate of spaghetti in front of him like it’s a miracle. Considering how abysmal the food at Arkham had been, it’s not surprising – Oswald too feels relief since it seems they’ve arrived at the end of the beige slop _à la_ Arkham era.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Zsasz shouts from the living room, yanking Oswald out of his thoughts once more.

“Have a good night, Victor,” Oswald yells back, carefully keeping the words as flat as he can without knowing why.

There’s _something_ , he knows, but that _something_ is quickly becoming a nuisance because of its implications – implications he should know better than to entertain.

There’s the sound of barking laughter from the other side of the house before finally, blissfully, the front door shuts behind Zsasz, but it does little to help his quickly deteriorating mood.

 

***

 

The first bite of spaghetti is, for the lack of a better word, magical.

The rush of flavor against the memory of Arkham’s customary brownish sludge is almost overwhelming. The pasta is warm _and_ doesn’t taste like disappointment – in short, it has qualities Ed has learned to stop expecting from his food.

To his surprise, Ed finds it impossible to pay attention to anything else until it’s gone. Only then does he really notice the bottle of wine and crystal glasses, as well as the expression on Oswald’s face, part curiosity and part understanding.

The glass in front of him is half-empty, the mostly empty bottle beside it a testament to how much wine Oswald has already had while Ed has been busy inhaling the food. With his own food, he’s has taken his time, it seems, approaching the meal with less of the ferocity of a starved man that Ed had and more with a sensible elegance usually reserved for royalty.

Ed takes a sip of his own glass of wine, finding it rich and sweet but lacking the acidity that would complement the richness of the pasta. Still, considering it’s the best Zsasz could do on short notice, it’s nothing short of impressive.

He says as much to Oswald, whose eyes widen in surprise.

“I never took you for a wine expert,” Oswald says with a huff of disbelieving laughter.

Ed shrugs. “I like wine well enough – mostly since flavor pairings are a matter of simple chemistry. By extension, I like cooking because it’s methodical like mathematics,” Ed tells him, and by the small crease between Oswald’s brows he can tell he might as well be speaking in tongues.

To his credit, however, Oswald concedes the point. “I’ve never thought of it that way,” he says eventually.

For now, it’s good enough; Ed smiles. “For the most part, the world is rational. Approaching it rationally, though, is what causes problems.”

There’s a small pause as Oswald takes a sip of the wine, neglecting the food. “But _should_ everything be approached with rationality?” he asks, a note of _something_ in his voice that Ed doesn’t have much time to consider.

It’s fair question, and one Ed isn’t sure he can answer – not anymore.

“I mean,” Oswald continues, “the choices you’ve been making lately, at least as far as my person is concerned, aren’t all that rational. I might say the same for myself. Is it _rational_ to risk your life for someone who doesn’t know who you are?”

When Ed doesn’t reply, Oswald takes another sip of the wine. “All I’m saying is, for someone who seems to value rationality and logic as much as you do, Ed, you don’t exactly seem to be practicing what you preach.”

There’s a tiny tendril of anger weaving its way towards Ed’s heart. “Maybe you should consider being more rational yourself, Oswald,” he says, a note of venom seeping into his voice. They’d been getting along well for the past hour or so. What changed?

Oswald smiles. Well – bares his teeth, more like. “Nice to see you finally show some backbone.”

Ed bristles. He knows Oswald is right, knows he hasn’t been nearly as rational as he’d like to be, knows he’s having trouble figuring out who he wants to be – or maybe not who he _wants_ to be but more who he _knows_ he is, somewhere deep in his core. And now that more immediate concerns are taken care of, he finds he’s ready to deal with the matter of his own identity once more – but not right now, not before he’s gotten a good night’s sleep and when Oswald is… doing whatever he’s trying to do.

While Ed doesn’t know this Oswald very well and vice versa, Oswald still seems to be able to see right through him, to pick apart his weaknesses and latch onto whichever one suits his fancy in order to…

To do what?

“Why are you trying to pick a fight?” he asks, looking Oswald right in the eye.

Oswald’s smile disappears at once.

“I’m not going anywhere unless you ask me to leave,” Ed continues, taking a guess at the root of their current issue. “I’m still here because I _want_ to be, because I _chose_ to stay with you. I keep saying it over and over, but you don’t seem to be listening. Can you just accept that?”

Oswald’s hand moves ever so slightly closer to the knife next to his plate and it seems Ed’s hunch was correct. Well, at the very least he’s hit a nerve – and isn’t that what this is all about? Pushing buttons to see who backs down first? Testing the limits?

“I can’t be _him_ , no matter how much you want me to be,” Oswald says eventually, pouring the last of the wine into his glass. “You’re not _my_ friend, you were _his_. And I’m not him. Can you just accept _that_?”

They’re quiet for a moment, waging a wordless battle over the dinner table, and Ed can’t help but think about the weapons littering the living room just a few steps from where he’s sitting – Zsasz’s table knives are nowhere near as dangerous as most of the items there.

Not that he’d use any of them, of course. But the way Oswald is staring at him, pale eyes narrowed, mouth set in a firm line as his right hand hovers near his knife while his left grips the slender stem of the wine glass…

 _Something_ roils in the pit of Ed’s stomach – good or bad, he doesn’t know.

As much as it hurts to admit, Oswald is right: whoever he is now, whoever he will be, he won’t be the man Ed met that first night at the asylum.

But maybe it doesn’t matter.

“I’m in your hand but you don’t hold me. After some time, you will know me. What am I?” he asks, and a fraction of the tension in his shoulders begins to alleviate.

“Seriously?” Oswald says with a huff, clearly still on the warpath.

Ed repeats the riddle.

“It’s fate,” Oswald says eventually, taking a sip of his wine, finally deigning to play along. “What has that got to do with anything?”

In lieu of a direct answer, Ed asks, “Do you believe in fate?” as he pushes his empty plate out of the way to lace his fingers together on the table in front of him.

Oswald smiles, more a quirk of the mouth than a real smile, but still. “Do you?”

“Rationally? No. But it seems rationality might not be the best approach,” Ed says, emphasizing the _might_ – he can concede as much. It’s not an olive branch, not really, but it’s a way of showing he can compromise, at least in this.

Oswald doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, his head cocked slightly. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. Whatever he was looking for, he seems to have found it – and Ed doesn’t really know what to think of it, except feel relieved that he won’t get stabbed just yet.

Probably.

The tension drains out of the room ever so slowly, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. After a minute, Ed clears his throat; the cut on his neck stings with the motion.

“I think it’s time for sleep, don’t you?” Ed says, downing what’s left of the wine in his glass in one gulp as he tries to suppress a yawn. “We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Oswald nods after a moment. “The guest bedroom is upstairs.”

“What about you?” Ed says, furrowing his brow.

“I’ll be fine,” Oswald replies, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ve got some business to take care of – reasserting myself in the community, so to speak. You should get some rest.”

Ed shrugs. Far be it for him to start teaching Oswald how to live his life, even though a part of him wants to argue that if either of them deserves rest, it’s Oswald and not him.

“See you in the morning, then,” he says, rising from the table.

Oswald raises his half-empty glass in a toast.

 

***

 

As soon as he hears the shower turn on upstairs, Oswald heads to the kitchen for the burner phone graciously left on the counter next to the fridge. He calls Zsasz, telling him to get rid of the car and arranging the delivery of a few items he’d neglected to request before Zsasz left – new clothes for his companion and weapons for himself, mostly, but he needs information, as well.

After all, doing what needs to be done and going after Galavan will be difficult if they are wanted men, especially if his plan is to pulverize the mayor.

Perhaps appearing in front of the man who’d killed him like Lazarus rising from the grave _shouldn’t_ be his priority, but he has little regard for any other long-term plans now that he knows what had happened to him and his mother.

And, most importantly, who had made it happen.

Because much like Lazarus, he’d reemerged from death incomplete – but with his memories starting to return bit by bit, it’s become clear where to lay the blame.

Galavan took everything from him, and he’ll return the favor in kind.

The slow, roiling hatred that the thought brings is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever felt. But there’s no real way to be certain – he still doesn’t remember everything, and it bothers him. While Zsasz hadn’t noticed anything amiss, the man isn’t exactly the most perceptive of his employees.

The word _employees_ brings to mind the question of money. He’s been gone for a while from what Ed has said and what he can piece together himself, long enough that most of his more public assets have most likely been seized by the police or divided amongst his subordinates; the cherry on the cake is that he doesn’t even remember how to contact his accountants. And if he doesn’t know what’s left of his empire, he can’t rally his troops.

If he’s got any left, that is.

Rebuilding will be difficult, that much he knows. But he’s never been a quitter and holding the city in the palm of his hand is one of his most treasured memories – if in part because it’s one of the few things he can remember clearly.

If he can’t have his old life back, he’ll just take his revenge and reclaim whatever he can.

Something is always better than nothing.

Right?

 

***

 

_He’s back in Arkham, in the visitation room he’s never–_

_He’s been here before._

_Mr. Penguin – well, Oswald, as he keeps insisting – sits across from him._

_A small, gift-wrapped box sits on the table between them._

_Oswald motions for him to open the gift, electricity crackling between his fingers._

_It’s a puzzle box._

_He solves it in twenty seconds, Oswald’s words buzzing in the air around them like insects; they land on the table, on the window, on the stone walls._

_There’s a heart in the box, pulsing and bloody._

_Oswald smiles._

_He picks up the heart, holds it gently in his hands._

_Oswald says something else, the words dripping from his mouth like black mud, sticky and dense. They stain his mouth, his chin, trickle down the front of his clothes._

_There’s a pain in his chest. He looks down and sees the shirt he’s wearing is ripped open, the frayed edges dark with soot and curling. Instead of skin, there’s nothing but a black void beneath._

_He looks at Oswald and opens his mouth._

_No words come out._

You can have it back _, Oswald says, frost creeping along his face._

_The scene changes._

_He doesn’t know where he is – it’s a club, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell. The edges are blurry on everything, turning what he assumes to be everyday items into something impossible to identify._

_It’s freezing in here, ice creeping along every discernible surface; the windows are open, he thinks. Wintery air floods the room, bringing a barrage of snow with it._

_As cold as it is, it’s beautiful, too – the chandelier above his head is ornately carved, the walls a mixture of swirling darkness highlighted in navy blue. There’s purple, too, details on the upholstery of the booths and on the curtains framing the stage._

_But it all looks abandoned, half-empty glasses on the tables and bottles on the floor, their spilled contents frozen._

_It feels like his ribcage is being torn in half._

_He gasps, his breath visible in the frosty air._

_After that, there’s nothing._

Ed wakes up.

It takes him a minute to remember where he is.

A quick glance out the window – unbarred, thankfully; he’s almost forgotten what that looked like – reveals it’s a little while past sunrise. He can hear sounds from downstairs, the clatter of dishes and the sound of the microwave beeping, accompanied by hushed voices.

So, he gets out of bed, rubs his eyes and puts on his glasses, thinking that if anything, he’s even more tired now than he was when he went to bed. Now that he can see clearly again, he notices a set of clothes laid out for him on the futon. They’re similar to the clothes he’s already wearing, but he can already tell they’ll fit him far better.

He changes clothes quickly, noting with a flash of delight that he was right: the new clothes fit perfectly, even better than any of his own. The sweater is a pleasant, dark green, the material soft as a whisper, and the trousers are far superior to the sweatpants from before. He feels a little bit more like himself now that he’s dressed in normal clothes – it had seemed a bit shallow to him at first, but he thinks he’s starting to understand Oswald’s obsession with being dressed properly.

Oswald.

Right.

Ed makes his way downstairs to the living room, which looks marginally better in the little early morning light. There are still plenty of weapons littered around and the neon lights on the wall seem to thrum in beat with a rhythm he can’t hear, but there’s a muted quality to it.

What was unnerving in the dead of night has become almost charming – _almost_ being the operative word.

He’s quietly moving towards the dining room when someone taps his shoulder. As he turns around, he sees nothing at his eye level. Looking a bit lower reveals a shock of dirty-blonde curls attached to the head of a teenage girl in worn clothes.

“Street trash girl?” Ed says, surprised as recognition hits him like a ton of bricks.

She looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Forensic guy?” she asks in return, mocking his surprise. Or perhaps she’s not mocking him at all, considering the way her eyes widen with the words.

A moment passes, then–

“Didn’t they put you in Arkham for killing those people?” she asks, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes again.

“Didn’t they send you upstate for stealing?” he asks in return, even though he knows it’s a weak response. He’s not even sure if that’s happened recently, but, knowing what little he knows of her, it seems likely.

“It didn’t take,” she says, shrugging. “You?”

Ed finds himself smiling. “It didn’t take.”

Selina huffs at that. “Nice outfit,” she says after a moment of silence.

“What are you doing here?” Ed asks.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she parrots, crossing her arms.

He’s about to answer that it’s none of her business when Oswald speaks from somewhere behind him.

“Selina,” he says, and both Ed and the girl turn to the doorway of the dining room. “Lovely to see you as always.”

“I thought you were dead,” Selina tells him, much the same way Zsasz had done hours prior. It’s not a lot, but there seems to be a small hint of relief in her voice.

“I got better,” Oswald says, glancing briefly at Ed with a smile. “Though I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself for now, if you don’t mind.”

“You owe me money for the last time,” Selina says, crossing her arms. She’s about the same height as Oswald, so it works perhaps marginally better than it would on anyone else, but it’s still very much a child facing off with an adult.

Oswald rolls his eyes in response. “I’ll pay you half now and the other half and then some later if you’ll do some work for me.”

Selina deliberates for a minute. “Fine. But I want to know where you’ve been and what he–” she gestures towards Ed, “is doing here.”

“If you give me an update on the state of the city, we’ve got a deal,” Oswald says, stepping out of the way to allow them into the dining room.

“Where’s Zsasz?” Ed asks once Selina has slunk off to the dining room, leaving them (relatively) alone.

“He’s downstairs, taking care of business,” Oswald says and a stifled scream drifts up from the staircase leading to the basement.

“Right,” Ed says, unsure of how to respond. This is a side of the criminal world he’s not at all familiar with – killing he’s intimately familiar with, but organized crime seems to be on a whole other level. Still, he must face the reality of the life he’s chosen for himself sooner or later, and the quicker he does it, the better. He’d wanted a teacher – and now he has one, for better or worse.

“It’s his home, he can do whatever he likes,” Oswald says when he notices Ed’s expression, mistaking it for discomfort.

“Of course. I just didn’t expect him to have a torture dungeon in his actual home,” Ed says, shrugging. “It seems like a security risk.”

Oswald chuckles softly, the sound reverberating off the walls and lightening the air of gloom that has settled onto the space. “That it does.”

“Thank you for the clothes,” Ed says after a moment of silence has passed between them.

“I had to guess the size, but they seem to fit,” Oswald says, glancing at the outfit. “You should see a tailor sometime, though.”

Ed’s about to reply when Selina sticks her head out of the dining room.

“Time is money, people,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve got places to be and people to see. Can we get on with whatever this is already?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't change anything plot-related in this one, but i did overhaul the internal monologues to try and make the characterizations a bit more... consistent. yikes.
> 
> thanks for reading!

Oswald hopes the others won’t notice the dark circles under his eyes – although, judging from the way Ed keeps glancing over, it’s clear said hope is in vain.

It had been a long night: trying to formulate at least a semblance of a plan of action proved to be far more difficult than he’d thought it would be. Trying to do it after a bottle of wine and a long, difficult day had been his first mistake. His second, loathe to admit it as he is, had been trying to go it alone.

He doesn’t delude himself in thinking that Ed could provide any assistance from experience, but the man is smart – if he’s being honest, Ed is probably one of the smartest people he’s ever met. One of the dumbest, too, but he supposes therein lies a fundamental truth. In order to gain something, one must sacrifice something else.

For Oswald, regaining his memories piece by piece has meant giving up any peace of mind brought by ignorance. All he wants to do is lie down somewhere in a quiet, safe room, and rest – not to sleep, precisely, but to take a moment to breathe, to clear his mind and let go, even if just for a little while.

No such luxury is awarded to him now, however, sitting at Zsasz’s dining table opposite the girl he knows is called Selina Kyle, also known as the Cat, who can get him information he desperately needs. Ed hovers somewhere behind him, probably leaning against the wall in an attempt to overhear the proceedings while remaining at a distance. 

And Oswald can’t fault him for that – at the very least, the man knows when to make his presence known without intruding in matters that don’t concern him – well, matters that concern him _a little_ , Oswald supposes, but there will be time later to deal with that. After all, one doesn’t get as far in life as Oswald had, once upon a time, without having one’s priorities in order.

And, right now, his priority is to fill the gaps in his knowledge. 

So, he distances himself from the disconnected thoughts still bouncing around in his head and focuses on Selina. She doesn’t look particularly happy to be sitting where she is, but she isn’t uncomfortable, either – it’s almost surprising, considering that she knows who they are.

Briefly, he thinks she’ll amount to a great deal if she manages to survive long enough.

He motions for her to start talking, but she crosses her arms and stares him down. “You promised me half of what you owe upfront,” she says, “and I ain’t telling you nothing before I get it.” 

Oswald can almost feel his blood pressure rising.

However, he can tell she is being serious for once, so he digs into his pockets and pulls out a few folded bills to lay them out on the table between them.

Selina squints at him for a moment, her surprise obvious on her face, before grabbing the money so fast it’s almost imperceptible. 

Oswald offers her the closest approximation of a smile he can manage at the moment. “You got your money. Now talk.”   

In return, either for the smile-facsimile or for the money, Selina grins as she leans back in her chair. “Whaddaya wanna know?” she says, turning the money over in her hands before putting it away in one of the many pockets of her jacket.

No ‘thank you’, no nothing.

_O tempora, o mores._

When Oswald doesn’t answer fast enough, Ed pipes up. “Everything that’s happened since I went to Arkham,” he says, and Oswald has to resist the urge to turn around and look at him.

“I didn’t keep tabs on you, Forensic Guy. I need something more specific than that,” Selina says, rolling her eyes at Ed. “Although… maybe I shoulda done,” she adds after a moment, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as if in appraisal. “But hey. Hindsight.”

“Everything significant starting from mid-November, then,” Ed persists, ignoring her inquisitive gaze and moving closer to the table – close enough to loom over their little meeting.

If Ed’s trying to play the bad cop in this little routine, he’s…

Well, not exactly succeeding.

Selina doesn’t seem too convinced, either; it’s probably the cozy sweater and the sleep-ruffled hair that break the illusion. Absently, Oswald thinks that Ed is going to need better clothes if he’s going to be taken seriously.

“So, are _you_ gonna pay me too,” Selina asks him before turning her gaze back to Oswald.  “Or are you guys like a package deal now?”

He meets her gaze. “Our interests align for now, if that’s what you mean.”

Selina smiles, uncomfortably _knowing_ for a girl her age. The nerve–

Oswald takes a slow, deep breath and tries to control the anger bubbling deep within.

“Whatever you say, Penguin,” she replies before launching into her info-dump.

They listen, Ed still standing and Oswald sitting, as Selina lays out all the major events in the city that stay out of the news outlets, from the power struggles within the mob families to the latest who’s who in the city’s flourishing criminal landscape.

All in all, it takes her the better part of an hour to bring them up to speed.

If her intel is as good as she claims it to be, Oswald has gotten well more than his money’s worth. He’s already working on three different angles to apply pressure to the weak spots in the families, to take back control of his city.

The best part is it’s not even time for breakfast yet.

“I held up my end of the bargain,” Selina says after they’ve spent a minute in silence. “It’s time for you to hold up yours. Where were you?”

Oswald fights the urge to roll his eyes again.

The girl is nothing if not persistent.

“I was in Arkham,” he says simply, deciding to offer no more than scraps of the truth.

What would be the point? As curious and clever of a child she is, she’s still a child – and one who loves the shinier things in life. After all, loyalty is a commodity with a price tag.

If Selina has any opinions about what he’d left unsaid, she doesn’t show it. “Yeah, I figured,” she says, glancing at Ed. “Where else would you have picked up your new boy toy? Unless you knew each other before?”

If crime doesn’t work out for her, Oswald thinks, Selina would have a magnificent career in journalism.

“You’ve got your intel, I’ve got mine,” he says, pointedly ignoring her comments. “There’s just one more thing I want you to do before you get the rest of your cash.”

Selina frowns at that but doesn’t argue. “Alright, shoot.”

“I need you to locate the remains of one Gertrude Kapelput,” he says, and his mother’s name sends a painful twinge through his heart. “Sooner, rather than later, if you would. But time isn’t an issue.”

Selina’s frown deepens. “I’m a thief, not a spy,” she replies, crossing her arms.

“If you want to stay in this line of work, you should learn to be both,” Oswald tells her nonchalantly. “Think of the job as stealing a piece of information. Unless you don’t think you’re capable of doing it...” he trails off purposefully, letting her stew in the silence for a moment.

The silence lasts for a minute or so before Selina huffs in annoyance and stands up. “Fine. I’ll do it. But write the name down, I got no idea how to spell it.”

Oswald makes to rise from his seat but before he can, Ed produces a pen and a slip of paper seemingly out of thin air.

“Here,” he says quietly, handing them over.

Oswald nods in thanks and writes the name down before holding it out for Selina. She grabs the paper with the same quick, practiced motion she’d used before and saunters out of the room. Soon after, the front door clicks, and the house is quiet again. Well, for the most part – there are still grotesque sounds coming from the basement, but they seem almost like white noise.

Ed makes his presence known once more by claiming the seat Selina had vacated moments before. “Leaning on her pride to get her to do what you wanted,” he says, eyes alight and fixed on Oswald. “Very clever.”

Oswald smiles.

 

***

 

Breakfast is a quiet affair, all things considered. Zsasz still hasn’t emerged from the basement, the only indication of his presence in the house being the occasional screams from whatever poor soul he’s got locked up in there.

Ed picks at the cereal Oswald’s managed to produce from the hectic mess of the kitchen; it’s rather funny, in its way, how a man as precise and meticulous at his job as Victor Zsasz exercises virtually none of said precision in his home. There is a distinct lack of organization that is starting to peeve him more and more by the hour.

To distract himself, Ed looks away from the mushy cereal and over the table – at Oswald, tapping away at a small cellphone with his brow furrowed.

Working on something, then. Or some _one_ , more likely.

He looks exhausted, the light in the kitchen accentuating the dark circles under his eyes that Ed hadn’t noticed in the living room, the hollows of his cheeks almost skeletal. Somehow, Oswald still manages to look composed, effortlessly elegant despite the hideous bowl of cereal in front of him and the telltale signs of fatigue on his face.

Ed had hoped a compliment would lighten the air somewhat, but to no avail. “Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks after another five minutes have passed in relative silence.

Oswald looks up from the phone. “What?”

Ed repeats the question.

Oswald shrugs.

“You need to rest,” Ed says and when Oswald doesn’t reply, continues speaking. “Look, it’ll help you heal. Both brain and body. Did you know that sleep deprivation produces elevated levels of corticosterone, which directly affects the regeneration your brain cells?”

Oswald scoffs. “I didn’t, no. And what if I can’t sleep? What do I do then, _Doctor_ Ed?” he replies, voice dripping with annoyance.

“Why can’t you?” Ed asks gently, even though his patience is starting to wear thin.

( _Why does he always have to be so contrary?_ )

Still, at least one of them has to keep a level head – and if it must be him, then so be it.

In fact, it reminds him of the first few nights at the asylum, bringing with it the realization that it’s as if they keep getting stuck in the same place no matter what he does, and he finds he can’t pinpoint what he’d done that first time to coax Oswald out of his slump.

But… Ed has had his opportunities to walk away, time and time again, and without being completely sure _why_ , he’s stayed. Out of some insane belief that this will all be worth it, because he believes Oswald can impart some kind of significant knowledge? Or because some ridiculous part of his psyche believes that, despite the semi-hostile moods Oswald has been levelling at him, a part of him genuinely cares? Because he misses someone that the Oswald in front of him might have never been and will most likely never be again?

The question remains unanswered, however, because Oswald takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I can’t sleep. Not until they’ve all paid for what they’ve done.”

“You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help,” Ed says and, for a moment, considers reaching out. “In whatever way I can.”

Oswald slowly opens his eyes, pupils widening with the influx of light. “And what could _you_ possibly do, Ed? Given your track record, you’re not exactly a criminal mastermind.”

Ed ignores the flash of anger deep in his chest. If Oswald refuses to see his value on his own, Ed will have to show him. “I can assure you my skill set is far more varied than it appears,” he begins, keeping his tone even, even though his heart is racing. “I can pick locks, for one. I’m good with electronics. And I’m betting that whatever it is you’re planning – and not telling me about, by the way – you’re going to need resources. Resources that I can, perhaps, provide, if given the opportunity.”

It’s as good a pitch as he can make it – and he’s been thinking about it for a while.

For his part, Oswald looks pensive, setting the phone down on the table and crossing his arms. “What do you propose, then?” he asks.

He’s decided to humor Ed, then – and that’s all he needs. “Cities and rivers both have me, yet only one of me does not give what it has gladly. What am I?” Ed replies, allowing himself a smile.

Oswald narrows his eyes. “Again with the riddles? Really?”

“Do you give up, then?”

“You want to rob a bank. Like some common criminal,” Oswald says, tone flat.

Ed shrugs. “Everyone has to start somewhere. Besides, I intend to do a little more than a simple bank robbery.”

Oswald doesn’t look convinced.

 _Fine. Time to bring out the big guns, then_ , Ed thinks, and continues. “Look. I _want_ to do this, and you _need_ me to, so how about this: I’ll take care of the bank job myself, no attachment to you or your... enterprise, minuscule though it may be right now. Think of it as a loan without a deadline – _I_ get to challenge myself and _you_ get money. Everybody wins.”

“What’s the catch?” Oswald asks, still doubtful.

Every single conversation they’ve been having lately seems like a broken record, with Ed offering to meet halfway and Oswald responding by kicking and screaming and not listening to a word.

Ed shrugs, trying to hide his disappointment. “Aside from me keeping a portion of the proceeds to further my own career, there isn’t one.”

Oswald is about to say something when there’s the sound of heavy footsteps up the basement stairs and a thud somewhere in the living room, followed by the crackle of the television turning on.

A moment passes before Zsasz shouts, “Hey, Glasses! You’re on TV!”

Discarding the preceding conversation, Ed and Oswald exchange a brief glance before rising from the table and making their way to the living room – and, sure enough, there’s a photo of Ed on the television screen: a mugshot nestled in a line-up with eight others next to the droll news anchor.

 _Among the Arkham Asylum escapees is Edward Nygma,_ she says as his photo is highlighted on the screen, _a former GCPD forensic scientist, who was apprehended and sentenced to intensive therapy last November after being found not guilty for two homicides by reason of insanity._

She goes on about the rest of the escaped inmates, listing off names and crimes, as well as shedding what little light there is to be shed on the Indian Hill facility in the basement of the asylum – seems like the police got their raid warrant after all.

Not for the first time, Ed is glad to be on the outside.

The news anchor seems to be wrapping up the story meanwhile, finishing up with the usual notices of _armed-and-dangerous_ and a quick _stay safe, Gotham,_ before seamlessly and emotionlessly announcing the weather forecast.

Zsasz is stretched out on the couch, languid and– and _snoring_ , apparently.

 _What a strange man_ , Ed thinks, and it’s also not for the first time.

Beside him, Oswald appears deep in thought. “So, your last name is Nygma? Which means your name is–”

Ed grins. “Edward Nygma. E. Nygma. Enigma,” he replies, his smile growing wider with each word leaving his mouth. “I know.”

“It’s not your birth name,” Oswald says; a statement, not a question.

“It’s not the family name, no. I kept ’Edward’ – that, I didn’t mind. The rest of it, however... it wasn’t worth keeping,” Ed says, recalling the day he was born again with fondness and distain in equal measure.

Something in his voice must’ve been telling enough, though, because Oswald nods – probably neither in approval nor understanding, but Ed can hope.

However, he also doesn’t press the matter further – and for that, Ed is grateful. The name change is not a topic he likes to dwell on much; a topic he has, in fact, generally avoided thinking about.

No one else has ever given a second thought to his name before, after all.

 

***

 

Time passes, as it’s wont to do.

Zsasz has been a gracious host – that is, if such a moniker can be applied to a host who isn’t home most of the time and only shows up every now and then to bring his houseguests cheap takeout and wine, all bought with Oswald’s money.

And… despite Oswald’s initial misgivings about the bank job, he has to admit Ed has potential. While he doesn’t know the finer details of Ed’s plan, or, for that matter, how exactly Ed’s going to make sure he isn’t recognized and captured as soon as he sticks his nose out of Zsasz’s house, Ed continues to surprise him; his mind whirs and weighs and calculates each step of his plan with precision, methodical and sharp in ways Oswald’s never seen before.

With some direction, there’s no telling what Ed could do.

The more time they spend together, the more Oswald feels grateful to his past self for making the decision to let Ed live – and to let him stay. After all, Ed has proven to be invaluable to the cause, directing matters with a deft hand and a natural ease that, despite his considerable experience, is still one of Oswald’s own weaker spots.

He knows he must have managed by himself, absolutely, but… with Ed’s help, he could have done so much more.

 _Can_ do so much more.

For now, though, his own plans are on hold as their collective focus lies on acquiring funds to see them through. To go against Galavan, he needs an army – and he can’t get one if he has nothing to offer in return, no matter how much his heart screams for him to get going already.

He knows he must wait. He’s done so before, and can do it again – this time, the stakes are lower, and he’s not keen on repeating what happened the last time he went in with guns blazing. The humiliation stings worse than knowing he’d died for his trouble.

His mother’s death, though, stings heaviest of all.

For her sake, he will wait, will bide his time and make his preparations to ensure he doesn’t fail again.

After six days, Ed’s heist plan is no longer an abstract idea but a set sequence of events, carefully laid out and fine-tuned to be the perfect crime – and Oswald realizes he doesn’t doubt anymore. Through all of it, through the week they’ve spent on the outside, there’s been numerous opportunities for Ed to walk away, to leave him to deal with the mess he’s in alone, but he hasn’t.

Instead, he’s remained a constant source of patience and support – and Oswald knows he hasn’t been easy to deal with, knows he’s been perhaps more hostile than he might have been under different circumstances. A traitorous part of him whispers that he’s lying to himself, that he would not have spared a second glance or second thought to Ed much like the first time they’d met. And, while that may have well been true at some point, he realizes that it isn’t anymore.

Still, the first time Oswald genuinely thinks of Ed with affection instead of suspicion comes as a surprise.

They _are_ friends, he realizes the night before Ed’s elaborate scheme is set to begin, poring over the schematics of the bank side by side. Three keys to the railway station’s lockers lie in the middle of Zsasz’s dining room table alongside a can of green spray paint, nestled between two empty bottles of wine; at the far end of the table, the detailed plans for the bombs to be planted at the train station lie all but discarded – the bombs are done, two dummies and a real one to keep the cops on their toes and out of Ed’s hair.

“Isn’t stealing _that_ painting a bit too much on the nose?” Oswald asks, not for the first time, sipping what’s left of his wine and glancing at the schematics of the art gallery that lie a little bit further off. He’d spent the bulk of his remaining funds to get the blueprints, and, at the time, had worried over it a great deal – a sense of apprehension that he now finds somewhat hard to recall.

Ed smiles, the low light dancing in his eyes. “As I’ve said before, I’ll be shocked if anyone at the GCPD figures it out. In context, the clue in the painting is simple enough to guess, but I sincerely doubt they’ll notice the anagram, let alone understand its significance. Trust me: I worked with those idiots for years.”

Oswald isn’t as certain, but it’s not like he can say no. It isn’t _his_ plan and it isn’t _his_ heist, even if he stands to gain the most from it. So, he bites back the protest rising from his throat, lets Ed plan stealing the painting titled _Mad Grey Dawn_ without further comment, and hopes Ed is right.

It would be a shame to lose someone as competent, as naturally gifted as Ed, over something as silly as a painting, but…

Ed’s a grown man who can make his own decisions.

Even if those decisions aren’t the brightest.

And he has all but flourished in planning the bank heist, shedding the remnants of the bumbling fool Oswald had met at the police station – emerging as something new, something sharp and keen and worthy of attention.

So, Oswald shrugs, deciding to look over the schematics of the dummy bombs one more time. They’re delicate work, very different from what he’s used to – at least, as much as he remembers being used to; parts of his memory continue to elude him – and surprisingly beautiful. There’s elegance in the mappings of the routes in and out, in the notes on the margins about explosives and compound ratios, in the line of Ed’s jaw as he goes over the camera locations one last time, brow furrowed and deep in thought.

It’s…

It’s absolutely _not_ the time for Oswald to wonder about that.

Instead, he hums under his breath and he stares at the plans for the dummy bombs without focusing, if only to keep his gaze from drifting over to Ed.

It’s not as easy as it should be.

 

***

 

As Ed had expected, his plan goes off without a hitch.

He sends the GCPD on a wild goose chase from the gallery to the train station, makes them chase after their tails and run around in circles, and, once it’s clear their efforts have been concentrated on the bombs at the station, he finally strikes.

Meaning: he adjusts his black domino mask and his hat, thinks for a moment about the odd but not unpleasant feel of his new contact lenses, wipes his suit to get rid of any lint he’d acquired on the way, adjusts his bag…

And simply strolls into the bank through a service door, graciously left open by a panicked employee who’d been bribed through an untraceable fifth party.

The building has been evacuated, safety protocols slotting into place despite two out of the three bombs in the neighboring train station being completely harmless: they will release nothing except a foul smell and green smoke once detonated, not complete annihilation, but, besides him and Oswald, nobody knows that.

For a moment, Ed allows himself to marvel at the complex simplicity of his plan – an oxymoron, yes, but a fitting one. Part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, but there’s no one around to press the alarms and bring the police force on his back, and he’ll be long gone before they even realize what’s happened.

It’s hard not to be pleased with himself. After all, this whole scheme has been conceived and executed by him – Oswald had helped with a few things, had given a few pointers on where to focus his attention, yes, but the plan is Ed’s brain-child and by extension, Ed’s triumph.

The thrill of success rushes through his veins, making him giddy as he makes his way through the corridors to the best loot, following the map he’s memorized. “ _Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe_ ,” he mutters under his breath.

A quiet, almost breathless laugh escapes his throat.

Traditionally, one would need a crew to pull off a bank heist, but it’s a good thing he’s far from traditional. Doing it alone will yield a smaller gain, yes, but it will be more than enough for what they need – and getting to what he wants will be delightfully easy.

 _They really need to upgrade their security systems_ , he thinks as he stuffs stack after stack of cash into his bag, careful to keep the spray-paint can away from the bills, before moving on to the next area, absently wondering about the best place to write his message to the police.

After all, what fun would this be if he didn’t rub it in their faces?

He’s even got the appropriate riddle picked out, if it can be considered a riddle – it’s one of that elusive sort which fall in the gray area between riddle, joke, and observational humor, but it’s nothing if not fitting.

He laughs again, louder this time.

The empty bank echoes his laughter back to him.

 

***

 

“ _Police baffled after mysterious robber hits Gotham City Bank_ ,” Oswald reads out loud from the evening paper. “ _The robbery could be connected to an art theft at the city’s largest art gallery and a subsequent bomb threat at the Union Railway Station earlier today. Detective James Gordon, who is running point on the investigation, declined to comment, but an anonymous source within the GCPD has pointed out that all three locations had been tagged with green question marks_.” He scans the rest quickly before saying, “They go on to detail what little specifics have been released to the public, but there’s nothing particularly interesting. It seems your overture has well and truly been a triumph, my friend.”

They’re sitting in the living room, having cleared two sofas from the guns and knives Zsasz has left there – with permission, of course, although said permission was a shrug from Zsasz which Oswald had simply elected to take for a positive answer.

Ed grins, drunk on his victory and the celebratory champagne they’d splurged on, reaching out to take the newspaper from Oswald and see for himself. He’s taken out the contact lenses – apparently, they irritate his eyes unbearably if left in for more than a few hours – and replaced them with his customary glasses, but the domino mask remains tucked into the breast pocket of his new suit.

It’s as much a testament to the day’s events as the duffle bag full of cash lying in front of the TV.

Ed did it.

He actually did it.

They’re rich.

Well, _Ed_ is, but at this point, it’s their mutual fund since Oswald couldn’t with good conscience accept the original cut that Ed had offered. It continues to perplex him how… _willing_ Ed is to part with his money, all for _his_ sake.

It’s both flattering and confusing, because Oswald can’t for the life of him figure out why; he knows he’s done nothing to deserve it.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter – or perhaps it doesn’t _have_ to.

Still, he doesn’t tell Ed that Selina had been by while he was gone, finally bringing the intel about his mother’s gravesite. She’d been buried in his absence, it appears, at one of the smaller graveyards in the city’s further suburbs, just a few miles from Slaughter Swamp.

The knowledge that there _is_ a grave brings with it a sort of peace: his mother’s body has been laid to rest after all. At the same time, however, it gives him even more of an incentive to exact his revenge – after all, thanks to Galavan, he’d been unable to attend the burial.

So, Oswald smiles despite himself and keeps his silence, laughs with Ed about the stupidity of the cops and lets him enjoy his moment in the limelight, drinks the champagne and doesn’t think about the things that keep him awake at night.

There will be time tomorrow for serious things, for plans and schemes and revenge, but just for one night, he can allow himself to forget.

Before he realizes it, Ed has moved over from the other couch to his own and wrapped his arms around him. He smells like soap and sweat and gunpowder with a whiff of the champagne, mumbling something quick and small that Oswald can’t hear, his breath warm against the fabric covering Oswald’s shoulder.

It would be easier to figure out what he’s saying if Oswald didn’t worry about spilling champagne on Zsasz’s carpet, so he gently detaches himself from Ed (even though it feels like every inch of his being is screaming out for him not to do it, so he allows himself to keep a hand on Ed’s forearm) and sets the glass on the coffee table, gently pushing a pair of old-fashioned revolvers out of the way.

Ed blushes, ever so slightly, the flush of his cheeks deepening from the mild hue of tipsiness to the brighter pink of embarrassment.

“Sorry, I just–“ he starts, but Oswald stops him.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I couldn’t hear what you said, that’s all,” he tells Ed, who seems to deflate in relief.

“Oh.”

Oswald waits patiently for a moment, but once it becomes clear Ed needs a little bit of prompting, he simply asks again, even though it seems Ed has already forgotten what he was doing in the first place as he stares at the muted television reporting yet another story on the local football team.

At the sound of his voice, however, Ed turns back to face him, all solemn seriousness. “Thank you,” he says, “I could never have done it without you, Oswald.”

Oswald tries very hard not to bask in the compliment, but it’s proving to be an impossible feat. “You sound like a politician, Ed,” he replies, trying to lighten the mood. He can only hope Ed won’t turn out to be of the surly and morose type of drunks, but one can never be too sure. He’ll keep his own thanks for the morning – when he can be certain Ed will actually remember it.

Ed huffs in response, the hints of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “If either of us were to be a politician, you would be far better suited for it, my friend.”

Now _there’s_ an idea.

“Not until I’ve settled this Galavan mess,” Oswald replies.

Ed nods, turning to reach for the champagne bottle once more.

Oswald swats his hand away. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says, not unkindly.

Ed only frowns in response and doesn’t argue the matter, settling into the couch and turning his eyes back to the television.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, i had four essays due this week so........ that was fun......  
> the last two chapters should be out soon enough.
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading!

Save for a few stragglers, the Baudelaire Flower Shop is mostly empty. Aside from Oswald, there is a man looking worriedly at a display of red roses and a woman browsing the selection of greeting cards near the till; he isn’t sure if said emptiness is because of the general unrest on the streets following Ed’s debut yesterday and the GCPD’s incompetent response, or because of the early hour and the shop’s location. Either seem like a good answer, but he prefers the former – he’d driven past the downtown station on the way here, mostly out of curiosity, and there had already been hints of a protest brewing.

It seems Ed’s little stunt had provided them both with money and with a distraction, the latter of which coming as an unintentional but welcome bonus – at least as far as Oswald knows. Ed, with his big brain, probably took that into account in advance.

Then again, even if he hadn’t, Oswald’s pretty sure he’ll take credit for it anyway.

In all fairness, of course he should be proud of himself, of what he’s achieved. Because even if Oswald’s own preferences skew towards organized crime rather than showmanship, he can appreciate a job well done. It had been a good plan and its execution was excellent for someone as inexperienced as Ed, but…

He can’t help thinking there would’ve been far easier ways to get what they wanted.

Still, what’s done is done.

He runs his fingers mindlessly over the petals of an orchid, deep in thought. They do have a nice selection here, traditional roses and tulips side-by-side with daisies, bird of paradise flowers and various cacti, as well as some dark green and heavy-leaved potted plants.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” a small voice says from somewhere near his elbow. Oswald looks down, startled, to see a young girl standing uncomfortably close. She has bright red hair and watery green eyes, the colors amplified by the ratty and mud-green striped sweater she’s wearing. “It’s a shame they’re killing the planet.”

“I’m… What?” he asks, removing his hand from the flower.

The girl shrugs. “The carbon impact of most flowers sold like this is awful. They’re imported, you know. The way I see it, you either gotta grow them yourself or buy local, otherwise don’t bother.”

“What… what is this?” Oswald asks again, unsure what to make of this kid. “Are you trying to get me to sign a petition? Because if so, I’m not interested.”

“I’m just saying, is all,” the girl replies, which isn’t helpful at all.

She doesn’t look impressed or apprehensive about the scowl he’s giving her, either.

Children these days.

“Alright then,” Oswald replies, because… what else is there to say? He’s not going to yell at a little girl in a flower shop – now _that_ would be a new low for him. But maybe there is something…

“Oh, by any chance, do you know if they have any lilies?” he asks, figuring he’ll give it a shot. After all, he’ll be damned if he can’t find his mother’s favorite flowers.

The girl looks away from the flowers and up at him. “Yeah, over there by the chrysanthemums,” she says, waving her hand in a wide arc to their left.

“…thanks,” he says, turning to go.

If only he knew what chrysanthemums looked like.

He glances over his shoulder to see if the girl is still there, but she’s already gone.

The shop isn’t too big; he’ll find the flowers by himself.

Eventually.

It’s not like he doesn’t have time – he’d planned to be back at Zsasz’s house around noon, and the graveyard isn’t too far from here, either.

It’ll be fine.

If all else fails, he’ll locate the shopkeeper.

Fortunately, the general direction seems to have been enough, because he after another few steps he can see the bright, intense varieties of lilies on display just around the corner – and all those lively colors seem wrong, inappropriate, somehow.

Which is why he turns to the white calla lilies off the side of the display.

Looks like he’s finally found what he’s been looking for.

 

***

 

_He’s in Arkham, in the visitation room he’s become far more familiar with than he’d like._

_Oswald sits across the table from him, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit with a purple brocade tie and a matching waistcoat._

_A small, gift-wrapped box sits on the table between them, the purple-specked wrapping paper glossy and gleaming under the fluorescent light._

_Oswald motions for him to open the gift, light playing between his fingers._

_It’s a puzzle box._

_He solves it like he’s done every previous time._

_There’s a heart in the box, pulsing and bloody and oh so very alive._

_Oswald smiles, warmth radiating from every pore. Here, in this moment, he’s beautiful, almost excruciatingly so – looking at him is like trying to look at the rising sun, awe and pain and joy bleeding together until there’s nothing left of the individual emotions but a tangled mess he cannot solve, no matter how hard he tries._

_But nothing can stop him from looking, just as nothing could stop him from staring at sunrises when they still existed for him, somewhere outside these walls. A part of him hopes they’re still there, somewhere._

_A silent request for permission is relayed as he looks and burns._

_Once permission is granted, he picks up the heart, holds it gently in his hands, admires the way blood pours, the heart a marvelous box of organic circuitry, bright red and pulsing with life. Oswald says something, the words dropping from his mouth like bubbles, light and impossibly intricate. Floating in the air, they reflect and refracture light, filling the room with a warm glow._

_There’s a twitch in his chest. He looks down, at the striped shirt he’s wearing, as he unbuttons it to check his sternum._

_The skin seems intact, but he knows it won’t stay that way._

_He looks at Oswald, opens his mouth._

_He knows what he has to do._

You can have it _, Oswald says, sunlight creeping along his face, leaning closer, closer, until he’s close enough that the flecks of blue in his irises are plain to see._

Only if you’ll have mine, _he replies and reaches deep into his chest._

I’ve always had yours, _Oswald says and smiles, his jawbone cracking._

_He blinks and in Oswald’s place sits a marble statue, a perfect – if lifeless – likeness._

_He reaches out._

_The statue shatters under his fingers._

_The light turns cold as the room disappears in a flurry of frost and ice._

 

Waking up is painful.

Ed’s head feels like it’s about to explode, the thrumming at his temples providing an unpleasant and distracting chorus.

If he ignores the pounding headache, however, everything else about waking up doesn’t seem so bad.

Especially once he remembers what he’d achieved the day before.

The domino mask is on the night-stand next to his glasses, a glass of water, and two small pills. Somehow, he doubts he was sharp enough at the end of the night to set it all out for himself, which leaves only one possibility.

His heart swells at the thought.

He looks down at his chest, at the green sweater in place of the suit he remembers wearing last, and recalls bits and pieces of the dream he’d had. Not everything, of course, but what he remembers feels familiar. Recurring, somehow, even though he knows he hasn’t seen that specific version before.

Somehow, everything leads him back to Arkham, even his dreams.

Leads back to places he can’t allow himself to go.

He has plenty already, has an outlook for a future where he can be more than an embarrassing side note in the city’s history; he has, for what might be the first time in his life, a true friend – and still he wants more, even when he knows well enough that he shouldn’t.

Part of the human condition, probably – wanting what one cannot have.

_I can give you strength or leave you powerless. I can be snared with a glance, but no force can compel me to stay._

He’d said it himself, what feels like a lifetime ago: there are no happy endings, not for people like him – like _them_. There’s no use in pretending otherwise, no use in _wanting_ when he knows it can never be anything more than a daydream.

It had been apparent enough last night when he’d... oh dear.

He’d been overwhelmed from the success of the day, had been drunk and emotional and reached out the only way he’d known how; it’s a good thing alcohol throws off his coordination, at least.

And Oswald had been gracious about it, of course, but…

He’ll have to apologize.

It’s not like he’d told the truth when he’d been asked to repeat himself. Well, a partial truth, but not the whole truth. But there’s no use in dwelling on these matters – especially not when there’s still work to be done.

After all, the bank job had only been the beginning.

So, Ed gets out of bed, picks up the pills and knocks them back with the glass of water. Aspirin, it seems; he doesn’t feel better immediately, but it’s a start.

Dehydration is the most common cause of hangovers, after all.

Which means he needs more water, and getting more means going downstairs. Which is exactly what he does, careful to avoid stepping on the rifle lying at the foot of the stairs as he makes his way to the kitchen.

Both the living room and the dining room are empty, as is the kitchen.

Now that he thinks about it, the house is _suspiciously_ quiet – even the basement.

Curioser and curioser.

He checks the clock, which reads a little past noon, and shrugs to himself as he turns the coffee maker on. He can’t let himself worry – and there’s no cause to be worried.

Both Zsasz and Oswald are adults, perfectly capable of taking care of themselves; Zsasz perhaps more so, given the number of weapons he has on his person at all times.

Still, no matter how rational he tries to be, it’s not helping.

The front door opens – Ed perks up, embarrassingly so.

He deflates immediately, however, when instead of the voice he’d expected, Selina shouts out, “Hey! Anybody home?”

“In here,” he replies and can barely make out soft footsteps heading his way.

“Oh. It’s you,” she says, giving him a once-over. “You look like crap. Where are the others?”

Ed looks over to her, trying not to bristle. “The house was empty when I woke up.”

“Your boyfriend take off already? Or are they both your boyfriends? I never understood what was going on there,” Selina says, hopping up to sit on the counter.

“Oswald’s not my boyfriend, Selina. Neither is Zsasz, for that matter. And I don’t know where either of them are, as I said,” Ed says, fighting the urge to rub his temples. “What do you want?”

Selina gives a toothy smile. “Money.”

“You already got what you were owed,” Ed says. “You know Oswald isn’t about charity, if that’s what this is about.”

“Nah, I’m just messing with ya. I was actually here to see if he found the grave,” she replies, hopping off the counter and making her way to the fridge. She opens the door and stares pensively at the mostly-empty shelves. “You guys seriously don’t have any food. Or do you only eat plain ketchup and… _what_ is _that_ … very, _very_ moldy cheese?”

“It’s Fourme d’Ambert, it’s supposed to be like that,” Ed says absently, looking for the brown sugar packets that he knows to be somewhere in his general vicinity.

“Sure,” Selina says, drawing out the word like it has six syllables instead of one, and wrinkles her nose at the cheese, poking it with a gloved finger as if she’s afraid it’ll bite her.

Honestly, it might.

“Wait, what grave?” Ed asks, once the first part of what she’d said registers – and perhaps a bit too forcefully, by the looks of it, because she closes the fridge door with a huff and turns to face him, crossing her arms.

“That old lady’s grave that he asked me to find? Well, he asked for remains, but they just so happened to be in a grave, y’know?” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “You were there when he asked.”

“That’s where he is, then,” Ed says, a twinge of hurt making its way down his spine. “He went to see her.”

He’d thought they were better friends than this. Surely, Oswald would tell him about something this important?

The tangle of emotions must be apparent on his face, because Selina uncrosses her arms and looks at him, something a little like regret in her eyes.

“And you didn’t know. Huh. I thought you guys were all buddy-buddy.”

Ed turns away from her to check the coffee maker, not very thrilled at the thought of having to examine his… whatever-it-may-be with Oswald in front of the girl.

The coffee’s almost done, by the looks of it, but it’s not like he’s an expert. Still, the carafe is mostly full, so he turns it off and starts the hunt for a clean mug.

He makes a mental note to buy Zsasz a decent kettle as a thank-you gift.

“Okay, you don’t wanna talk about it, suit yourself. I’m still hungry, though,” Selina says after a moment of silence.

“There’s cereal somewhere in the cupboards,” Ed tells her once he’s found what he’s looking for.

Selina gives him a long look. “You can do better than that.”

Ed sighs and pours himself a cup of coffee, unfortunately without any sugar. “You’re trying to get me to buy you takeout, aren’t you?”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” she says and saunters off into the living room. “Besides, looks like you’re not hurting for cash. Me, on the other hand…”

“Fine, we’ll get something once someone with a phone gets back. But if any of my money goes missing while you’re here, I’ll flay you myself,” Ed calls after her and takes a sip of his coffee, frowning at its bitterness.

Selina only laughs in response and turns the television on.

 

***

 

Oswald gets back to the house around two.

He looks… happy. Peculiarly so, for someone who just went to visit their beloved mother’s grave – and Ed supposes it _could_ be from relief and a sense of closure, but something tells him that’s not the case.

“Good afternoon, Ed,” he says as he steps through the front door, grinning so wide that it must hurt. “I have some great news.”

Ed tries to smile back, to little avail.

Unfortunately, Oswald doesn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in his happiness. The brightness of his smile diminishes somewhat once he steps further into the room and notices Selina napping on the couch closest to the door. “Hello, Selina,” he says.

At the sound of her name, the girl bolts upright, her hand going towards her boot. “Oh, hi,” she says, before turning around to raise her eyebrows at Ed, a weird look on her face. “I have to go now.”

“Alright, then,” Ed says, keeping his own face neutral. He’s not quite sure what she’s trying to convey, but he can guess – and it’s none of her business.

Some of his irritation must show, though, because Selina rolls her eyes at him before turning to give Oswald a curt nod as she stands and heads for the door.

“Come by for dinner sometime if you like,” Ed adds once her back is turned, almost like an afterthought. As nosy as she is, she’s also pleasant enough to be around – and a useful ally to have.

Selina glances at Oswald, who doesn’t say anything, before shrugging. “I’ll think about it. See you guys around.”

She’s out the door before either of them can say anything further.

Oswald remains near the door for a moment before shaking his head and sitting down on the couch Selina had vacated moments before.

The air in the room feels heavy.

“What’s the news, then?” Ed asks, a jolt of dread going through his very core in anticipation of the answer. He doesn’t know why.

Oswald smiles to himself and doesn’t reply.

“Oswald?” Ed asks again, and Oswald finally, _finally_ looks at him.

“Hmm?”

“What’s the news?”

Oswald laughs. “The most wonderful thing has happened, my dear friend. In a million years, I could’ve never…”

“What is it?” Ed asks once Oswald trails off, carefully conjuring a smile even though most of him wants to get up and run away, and never hear the words he knows are coming.

“I met someone,” Oswald says, and Ed feels his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces.

“Oh?” he replies, doing his best to keep the disappointment from showing on his face.

It figures that this would happen. He’ll be alone again, all but forgotten in the shadow of this new person who’s made his only friend the happiest he’s ever seen him – and despite knowing he should, Ed’s not sure he can bring himself to be happy for it.

In all fairness, his frustration is only amplified by the fact that he doesn’t know why he feels it. Oswald is his friend, nothing more.

He has no right, no claim of ownership – not that the latter would ever be possible or plausible anyway.

And to make matters worse, Oswald keeps talking in circles. “Yes, he’s… I went to my mother’s grave, see,” he says, and it must show on Ed’s face that he’s not pleased about being left out of the loop, because Oswald quickly adds, “I found out while you were gone yesterday – Selina came by and told me. I was going to tell you last night, but I didn’t want to ruin the nice evening.”

Ed bristles at that, feels a tangle of anger and hurt lodging itself somewhere between his lungs. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. You wouldn’t have ruined anything.”

“If you say so,” Oswald replies, thankfully letting the matter drop. “As I was saying, I went to my mother’s grave. And… I met someone.”

Ed’s stomach drops again.

Here it comes.

“He was… He’s my father, Ed,” Oswald finishes.

Ed can only stare, flabbergasted. “I… I thought you said he’d died when you were little?” he asks instead of voicing the thousands of thoughts that are running through his mind – disbelief seems to be the safest option here, and the only one worth dwelling on in this moment.

“So I was told. But it turns out he’s _very_ much alive,” Oswald says and there’s nothing on his face but joy. Ed can’t exactly bring himself to share it. There are simply too many questions still unanswered, questions he can’t make himself ask right now – with a pang, he thinks he might finally see why Oswald hadn’t told him about Selina’s discovery last night.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like,” Ed manages eventually, and Oswald seems pleased by the response because he smiles again.

“I… I thought I was alone, that I was the last of my family,” he says, picking at the hem of his suit jacket, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “As it turns out, I’ve gained not only a father but a stepmother and two stepsiblings as well.”

Once again, Ed doesn’t know how to respond.

“I haven’t met them yet, of course, but… My father is good, Ed. He’s a good person,” Oswald continues, something soft and kind in his voice that Ed’s never heard before. “Far better than I deserve.”

“What’s his name?” he asks, and Oswald smiles yet again.

“Elijah Van Dahl.”

Old money, then – seems Oswald’s halfway to being a blue-blood.

Ed says as much, and Oswald laughs in response.

“They’re rich, yes, but not _that_ rich. They do, however, own a lovely old manor just outside of town. It’s a couple of miles west from Slaughter Swamp, although Father says you couldn’t tell from the house or the grounds that the place was anywhere nearby,” he tells Ed.

Ed finds himself nodding, as if any of this makes sense.

“Which reminds me – he asked if I’d like to come over for dinner to meet the family, and I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me,” Oswald continues, more of a request than a question.

 _Isn’t he thinking at all anymore? Is that what this is about? Has his mind finally snapped?_ Ed thinks, and knows better than to say any of it.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? My face was plastered all over the news last week, and not in a good way,” Ed says slowly, once the initial barrage of thoughts has been subdued. “I don’t think…”

Oswald waves his hand, as if batting the words away. “It doesn’t matter. I told him you were framed, which, if you ask me, isn’t too far from the truth. Besides, I _want_ you to meet him. Trust me on this, Ed.”

“I _do_ trust you. However, I don’t know if it’s wise to trust your extended family,” Ed says and Oswald’s eyes narrow. “Your father excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Oswald replies, eyes still narrowed.

There’s silence for a minute or so.

“You can say no if you’d rather not do it, you know,” Oswald says eventually, and his prior good humor seems all but dissipated.

“It’s not that at all,” Ed replies quickly, “I just…”

He thinks for a moment, looks Oswald in the eyes and sees nothing but hope and happiness.  If Oswald truly wants him to come with, then so be it.

“If you’re _really_ sure that my presence won’t cause any problems, then yes, I’d love to join you,” he says, and Oswald grins once more, face bright and hopeful.

Ed smiles back, trying to ignore the numerous ways that his brain keeps supplying of how things could – and most likely will – go wrong.

 

***

 

A few days later, as Ed stands in the middle of the dining room at the Van Dahl manor, covered in blood, he curses himself for letting things get this far.

The first dinner had been nice, civil, even, despite the dirty looks the illustrious Mrs. Van Dahl kept shooting towards him, but it’s not like Ed had expected anything different. Oswald’s father, however, had been a truly gracious host – had even invited them to stay at the manor after hearing of his son’s predicament.

Although, now that he thinks about it, _why_ exactly said invitation also extended to Ed, he’s not completely sure. Well, he tells himself he’s not sure, but it had been obvious what the family had thought of them – of _him_ , being there at the family dinner.

He doesn’t know whether it’s a relief or a disappointment that they’d been wrong; lately, it seems to be veering towards the latter.

The house itself, once they’d gotten to it that first night, had looked both familiar and unfamiliar, like a half-forgotten vision from a dream. Upon entering, the sense of déjà vu had only amplified, the halls and rooms he’d never been to before strikingly recognizable – but with a sense of wrong about them, too, with thoughts like _this painting should be over there_ or _there should be a rug here_ flitting through Ed’s mind faster than he could register them.

Despite the mild discomfort rising from knowing the house like the back of his hand without having ever seen it before, though, the first day had been okay.

More than okay, really, considering how happy Oswald had been.

After that, though, especially with Mr. Van Dahl’s talk of having a meeting with the family attorney to change the details of his will…

Well. That hadn’t gone over well with the missus and her horrible children.

He’d suspected they’d do something to sabotage Oswald’s claim to the heritage, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of them doing something so quickly and, if he’s being honest, so stupidly. Poisoning a whole decanter of sherry with the intent of killing one specific person and managing to kill the wrong person to boot…

Pathetic, really.

And Ed had shared with Oswald his thoughts on the likeliest scenario of what had happened and why the next day, once the mortician had come and gone; he’d made himself scarce during the visit, of course, to avoid making a bad situation worse – and that gave him time to analyze the evidence he’d seen.

It was painfully obvious to see who had laced the sherry with cyanide and why – all the symptoms for histotoxic hypoxia had been there, as well as people with a motive. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out – and Ed had figured it would be safest to be the bearer of bad news himself.

Oswald’s revenge, once he’d realized who was to blame for his father’s death, had been swift and brutal. Beautiful, too, in its own way – the ferocity and speed with which Oswald had moved, as if driven by divine wrath, had come as a surprise to Ed, albeit a thrilling one.

Almost made him feel sorry for his stepfamily.

The key word being _almost_.

Although, to be fair, unceremoniously decapitating Mrs. Van Dahl after killing her children might have been a bit of… overkill.

Then again, it’s not like Ed can pass any judgement.

She’d broken Oswald’s heart, after all, and the arterial spray resulting from using a knife as a makeshift guillotine that had just about ruined both Ed’s new sweater and Oswald’s favorite suit.

He looks away from the woman’s severed head, currently set smack middle of the dining table in a small puddle of blood – he makes a note to get the table cleaned up before the blood sets, _wouldn’t want to ruin the lovely finish_ – and towards the drawing room, where Oswald is currently busy breaking any and every item he can get his hands on.

“What should we do with the bodies?” Ed asks as Oswald picks up a beautiful vase and smashes it against the floor, snarling like an animal. The porcelain shatters against the floor in a marvelous fashion, the shards flying every which way.

“I don’t care,” Oswald growls, rage and pain written all over his face, pacing the room in search of more things to break. The wine bottles from the previous night’s dinner are already scattered in pieces across the floor, and Ed finds himself hoping they can hire someone to clean up the mess.

“We’ll have a funeral for your father, of course,” Ed says, eyeing the broken pieces of glass and pottery on the floor with distaste. “But for the rest of them…”

“For all I care, you can throw them out with the trash,” Oswald replies, halfway to shouting, his voice cracking at the end of the sentence.

“Okay. Do you want some tea?” Ed asks.

Oswald doesn’t reply.

Ed shrugs and wipes his hands on the front of his ruined sweater before making his way to the kitchen, hoping that the Van Dahls keep – _kept_ – a better selection than Victor Zsasz does.

Speaking of: he really should contact Zsasz for cleanup.

The blood could ruin the furniture if left to sit too long.

 

***

 

Sometimes, Oswald thinks the Universe – or God, or whatever divinity there is, _if_ there is one – has a personal vendetta against him.

What other explanation is there? For every happy moment in his life, there are ten horrible ones.

And to think he’d been wondering if perhaps he should try to reform, to turn away from what – _who_ – he’s used to being, to try and use his quite literal second chance at life to become someone worthy of his new family.

Someone who could start anew.

Well.

That opportunity – if it ever was one to begin with, really – is gone and done with now.

If anything, the events of the night have given him even more of an incentive to hold the city in the palm of his hand and crush it. After all, what good has being here ever done for him? It has violently taken everything he loves from him time and time again, no matter how hard he tries to hold on.

With that thought, and with the fury boiling inside him finally starting to fizzle out, the tears start coming.

Ed says something, asks questions he can’t answer, and Oswald snaps something back without even registering what he’s saying. Ed leaves quickly after, and while Oswald knows he shouldn’t take his frustrations out on Ed, knows Ed had done the right thing by pointing him towards the true villains…

Anger is an irrational, ugly thing.

And right now, he’s angry at the whole world.

Thinking the he hasn’t deserved anything that’s happened to him doesn’t help, either, because if he’s being honest, he’s well aware he’s done more than enough to deserve it.

But knowing something rationally and accepting it are completely different things, and he can’t accept this. No matter his own flaws and faults, his parents bore no fault, and yet both died – because of _him_.

Serves him right that Ed would go, too, would leave him behind just like everyone else.

He picks up a crystal decanter from the end table and sends it flying towards the wall.

It doesn’t shatter.

And throwing it didn’t make him feel any better.

The tears fall in earnest now, hard enough that he can’t see, so he sits down on the sofa near the fireplace and buries his head in his hands.

There are so many things he needs to do. Far too many, really, but he can’t stop. Can’t rest, not until…

Until…

When?

At this point, even the mere concept of _rest_ seems to be an unattainable dream.

Even though his father’s death has been avenged, his mother’s killers remain on the loose, running around the city, _his_ city, like they own it.

Filthy degenerates.

He’ll crush them and anything and anyone they’ve ever cared about, if insects like that are capable of caring.

“I brought you some tea,” Ed says from somewhere behind him, and Oswald wipes away the tears quickly before turning to face him.

At the sight of Ed standing there, blood all over his clothes and a few specks of it on the lenses of his glasses, two teacups and the sugar bowl on a tray in his hands, the anger wrapped around his heart finally melts away, only to be replaced by something he can’t name.

“I didn’t know which kind you liked, and there wasn’t much to choose from, so I went with chamomile. I hope that’s okay,” Ed continues, and waits for a moment.

When there’s no reply, he steps closer.

“Oswald?” he asks, concern written all over his features.

“I thought you’d left,” Oswald says, and his throat constricts painfully around the words.

Ed frowns, setting the tray down on the coffee table before taking a seat next to him.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, genuine confusion furrowing his brow.

Oswald doesn’t have an answer. Instead, he looks away and picks up a steaming cup of tea from the tray.

They sit in silence for a while, sipping their tea as they watch the fire in the hearth die down until there’s scarcely anything left but a few embers.

“Thank you,” Oswald says quietly.

“Anything for you,” Ed replies, and it’s not the first time he’s said the words, but it _is_ the first time Oswald realizes that he does, in fact, mean it.

 

***

 

“So, _this_ is where you’ll live now?” Zsasz says as Ed lets him through the front door of the manor the next morning.

“It’s Oswald’s now. He’s finishing with the paperwork at the attorney’s office as we speak,” Ed replies with a shrug. At least something good came out of Oswald’s father’s death – a callous thought, he knows, but a pragmatic one. 

Zsasz lets out a whistle. “It’s nice. _Really_ nice. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“He hasn’t asked me to leave yet,” Ed says, conceding.

“I’ll bet you he won’t. Ever,” Zsasz replies, grinning – or maybe he’s just baring his teeth.

It’s hard to tell with him.

Ed can already feel a migraine coming on. “Why does everybody keep saying things like that,” he mumbles to himself.

“Because not everyone is as blind as you two are,” Zsasz tells him and pats his shoulder.

Well, smacks it three times, more like.

Ed doesn’t let himself react, instead leading Zsasz to the dining room where most of Mrs. Van Dahl and her children’s remains are currently located. He’d mopped up most of the blood by himself last night, once Oswald had gone to bed, but he’d figured it’d be easier to pay for cleanup than to do it by himself under the circumstances, and especially since he can actually afford it.

Oswald had decided he wanted to keep her head, for some reason Ed’s not really sure of – but, then again, it’s not like it’s _his_ evil stepmother’s remains. Everyone has their own methods for dealing with grief: if Oswald wants to keep trophies, then so be it.

Although they’ll have to figure out what to do with it once decomposition sets in, but Ed supposes there are ways around it.

In any case, the head’s currently in the freezer anyway, so it’s a problem for another day.

“You got any trash bags in the house? I’ll also need a sharp knife and a handsaw,” Zsasz says, assessing the situation in the dining room with a clinical eye. “Should probably call the girls here, too, otherwise I’ll be here all day.”

“Trash bags are in the kitchen, second cabinet to the left of the door,” Ed says before it occurs to him that he shouldn’t know that. “And I’m sure you brought your own knife – I can see at least four on your person from where I’m standing, and I know you carry more than that.”

“It was a trick question,” Zsasz replies nonchalantly, tapping away at his phone.

“It wasn’t a question,” Ed says, frowning.

“That was the trick.”

Ed rubs his temples.

It’s going to be a long day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> galavan gets pulverized: take two. 
> 
>  
> 
> thank you all so much for reading! c:

“I’ve been thinking…” Ed says one night when they’re going over the various ways to exact Oswald’s revenge on Galavan, pacing around the dining room of the manor.

So far, they’ve come up with nothing viable.

It’s been three days since the bloodbath; three days since Oswald had inherited his father’s estate. Things are not exactly _looking up_ – Ed wouldn’t go that far – but they’re certainly _better_ than what they were a week and a half ago.

There are far fewer weapons lying around the house, for one. Oswald has also hired a housekeeper, a sour-faced and sullen old Russian woman named Olga (which most likely isn’t her real name – but, given that even a rigorous background search had failed to provide any proof, Ed is letting it slide for now), and is well on his way to rebuilding his empire.

Which leaves Ed in a precarious position. He’s Oswald’s friend – a trusted advisor, even – but not officially in the chain of command. There are but few people in the operation who even know that he’s a part of it – which, now that he thinks about it, is likely the only thing preventing him from being dragged back to Arkham the second some miserable underling cracks under pressure.

Unfortunately, it also limits his influence.

After all, it’s _Oswald’s_ empire, not his.

And honestly, he doesn’t mind; he’s never wanted to rule Gotham in the same way that Oswald has, but… sometimes, in the quiet hours when everyone is asleep and the house creaks and groans and settles in the night, he wonders if this is truly what he was meant to do.

With the mess at Arkham and meeting Oswald first when he was dead and then when he was alive again, with the big plans and the bank heist, it seems a disappointment to end up here. Sure, he’s safe and sound, and has some say in things, but… sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

Perhaps it’s ungrateful selfishness, but he wants more than _this_ , wants more than hiding in the shadow cast by someone else’s glory – and perhaps he minds it a little bit less when it’s Oswald’s, who he knows is one of the brightest stars in the skyscape of Gotham, but it doesn’t mean he’s happy with it.

Content, absolutely – but not _happy_.

And isn’t happiness what he deserves? Then again, perhaps _deserves_ is the wrong word.

He can’t stop himself from going over the bank job again and again: the rush of adrenaline and excitement, the chance to prove his superiority…

There’s nothing sweeter than the rush of victory, and he’s been lacking in those for a while.

And Oswald is behaving strangely, too – awkward in a way he’s never been before, affectionate and attentive one moment, distant and absent-minded the next, all of which is putting a strain on their relations. A strain that said relations, still new and thus more than a little bit precarious, might not be equipped to handle.

Ed can’t help but think that if the other wants him to leave, he should just say so.

“I’ve been thinking,” he repeats once he manages to pull himself from the train of thought and sees Oswald at the dining table, looking at him expectantly. “Perhaps we’re going about this all wrong. What if we let _him_ come to _you_?”

Oswald scoffs. “What makes you think he’s going to make a move if he hasn’t made one by now?” he asks, eyes narrowed. Without waiting for a reply, he continues, “I won’t sit around and wait for him to pay attention to me. I’ll take him down on _my_ terms, when _I_ want to. And I want to do it as soon as possible. He _has to_ pay.”

Ed feels more and more powerless by the moment. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this matter if Oswald won’t allow him one, he knows that, and it seems no matter what he says or offers regarding the situation with Galavan, it’s never enough.

At this point, the dismissals are really starting to sting.

“Look, I’m not denying that you have plenty of good reasons to want this to be over and done with, but as things are standing right now, there’s nothing we can do,” he says, using the last shreds of his patience to make the statement sound gentler than it is.

Oswald sighs, annoyance written all over his face. “Don’t you think I know that? I don’t need you to be my voice of reason, Ed, I need you to help me _figure this out_ so I can get _justice_ for my _mother_ ,” he says, tone rising in shrillness through the sentence until he’s shouting the last words.

 _Justice_.

_(a nightmare in the air and a dark night and a growling voice and a fist connecting with his cheek and blood and pain and purple and green and what’s black and white and red all over a dead penguin a newspaper a bat a bat a bat a bat)_

“Ed! Are you listening to me?” Oswald screeches from across the room, and Ed finds himself gripping the edges of the dining table, knuckles turned white.

He lets go of the table and shakes his head, trying to dispel the images still running across the backs of his eyelids. “It’s… I’m fine,” he says, but it comes out weak and unconvincing.

And Oswald must catch it, too, because he stands up and takes a few quick steps towards him, the chronic pain in his leg all but forgotten – but remembered quickly enough when his leg buckles under him. He corrects his stride well enough, avoiding falling, and leans on the back of a chair for support, hand hovering near Ed’s arm. “No more lies, remember?”

Ed closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, Oswald is looking at him, eyes wide and worried, any prior annoyance forgotten as quickly as it appeared. “What happened?” he asks.

“I… I don’t know,” Ed says, trying to ignore the throbbing headache coming on. He allows himself a short pause to try and figure out a way to word it. “I… I see _things_ , sometimes. They were only dreams at first, but now…”

It seems his subconscious is ejecting these images of lives not lived into his conscious mind now, too.

“What does that even mean? What kind of things?” Oswald asks, voice taking on a slightly panicky tone.

Ed doesn’t know how to answer. “I don’t… Different _paths_ , perhaps,” he says eventually, uncertainty over how to best explain it warring with uncertainty over whether the subject should be dwelled upon at all.

He’s been dealing with it relatively well so far, all things considered, and there is not a small amount of irrational fear that if he addresses the fact of the dream-visions – if that is indeed what they are, and not simply an aspect of budding insanity – things will get worse.

“You mean…” Oswald says, trailing off into a confused silence.

Or maybe it’s not confusion but disbelief.

It’s hard to tell.

“I never was but am always to be; even the wisest of men look forward, never to see. What am I?” Ed asks, rubbing his temples.

He really, _really_ needs to sit down.

“Ed…” Oswald starts, but Ed cuts him off to repeat the riddle. It eases the pain somewhat, lets him focus on something else other than the acute feeling that his head is being cleaved in half.

“It’s tomorrow,” he answers himself when Oswald doesn’t say anything and the silence in the room starts becoming suffocating.

His hands are trembling, he notices absently, and he’s pretty sure sweat is trickling down his temples.

“So, you’re, what… you’re saying you can see the future,” Oswald says, more a statement than a question.

“Possible futures. Or versions of the present that didn’t come to happen. I don’t know,” Ed says.

To his credit, Oswald has listened so far, although it’s apparent he’s not convinced even as he nods.

Ed takes a deep breath. “I _know_ how it sounds. But sometimes I remember things days before seeing them for the first time. This house, for one,” he says, gesturing around them, “I _saw_ it back in Arkham. Some things were different from how I remembered them, yes, but it was _familiar_. This table, the sofas, the fireplace – even the paintings of your ancestors above the mantelpiece in the anteroom. I’d seen them all before I ever stepped foot here.”

Oswald only looks at him for a moment, a look on his face that Ed doesn’t know how to define. “When did it start?” he asks eventually.

Ed thinks for a while, tries to pinpoint a time in recent memory without the ominous glimpses into things that haven’t been, and comes up blank. Everything in the past few months, everything during the time he’s been…

Oh.

“After I met you. The _other_ you, I mean,” he says, “back at the asylum.”

Everything leads back to Arkham, indeed.

 

***

 

Oswald doesn’t know what to think. Either his best friend, the man he trusts above everyone else in the world, is going insane, _or_ he’s telling the truth. Needless to say, both options are equally terrifying. Whatever it may be, one thing is for certain: it’s troubling him. Maybe it has been for a while, but he’s kept it hidden well enough to avoid detection. Or maybe it just hasn’t been this bad before.

Either way, to even begin to deal with this, Oswald needs a drink.

Correction: several drinks.

He should’ve known better than to think they were done with Arkham. It’s an unspoken truth that the madhouse has loomed over them, a viscous dark shadow from a past he’d rather forget, corrupting everything with its poisonous influence, far more powerful than any building should have a right to be.

And perhaps it will never let Ed go. Out of the two of them, Oswald has fared significantly better in the aftermath – some nights when the ache in his leg is bad enough that even painkillers don’t help and he’s tossing and turning in his bed, he can hear Ed’s familiar footsteps pacing up and down the halls.

And there’s nothing he can do to help.

He should’ve known better the moment they got away that it wasn’t the end, because there’s also a very real possibility that one of these days, someone will recognize Ed and snitch on him to garner favor from the cops, spiriting Ed away as if he’d never been here. And Oswald’s avoided thinking of it as much as he can, but more than anything, he hopes Ed understands why he can’t let him be a part of the operation to the capacity he deserves.

Because Oswald is selfish, he’s never denied that, and although it might be a steep price to pay, it’s worth it if only to keep Ed by his side.

Because none of this would be here if it weren’t for him; Oswald would still be at the asylum, perhaps none the wiser to who he is – and yes, some memories, even after all this time, remain blurry at the edges, but he has himself back. Without Ed, it’s very likely he’d be something else entirely.

And he’ll tell Ed all of this, will pour his very heart out once the time is right, but not yet. Not now, when it seems like he’s losing Ed no matter what he does. Because he knows how to break and twist and maim, and doesn’t know how to _fix_ – especially not something like _this_ , whatever it is that Ed is going through.

Because what could he say that would help?

So, he does the only thing he can think of, puts aside his own pride and anxieties to wrap his arms around Ed as best as he can. It’s more than a little bit awkward with the height difference, but it seems to work to at least some extent, because after the initial surprise fades, Ed returns the hug.

They’ll figure something out.

They’ve managed so far.

Right?

 

***

 

Maybe Ed _should_ leave. Go somewhere else, be away from Oswald – who seems to be at the epicenter of the misery threatening to drown him.

It would be the logical thing to do, to try and see if distance helps.

But…

The heart wants what the heart wants, and the last thing Ed’s wants to do is walk away now.

As much as it may irritate him every now and then, he has to admit that Oswald is right: Galavan needs to be dealt with, and soon, if only so he can focus on figuring out what’s wrong with him. Because as things stand now, there’s little time to devote to figuring out what exactly happened to him back at Arkham.

They’ve got eyes and ears out looking for Strange, who is most likely the only person who might be able to shed light on the situation – if provided with the right incentive, of course. But it’s only been a day, and finding him will take time.

Besides, he’s managing fine in the meanwhile – perhaps not as well as he’d like to, but he _is_ managing. The dreams, although annoying, are simply that – dreams.

So, Galavan is the current priority – specifically, destroying Galavan. Which, if he’s being honest, is just a more delicate way of saying he needs to die. The only trouble with that, of course, is they’ve got nothing. There’s no angle, no outline of a plan that they haven’t considered, that doesn’t culminate in a zero-sum or a swift shutdown.

Maybe it’s because of the full night’s dreamless sleep after the… _bat_ vision, or whatever it might have been, or maybe it’s just the fact he’s at his wit’s end and desperate to be done with this so it can finally, _finally_ be over, that he thinks of something he’s been careful to avoid thinking about.

Or, to be exact, some _one_.

“What about Jim Gordon?” Ed says at breakfast, picking at his French toast.

Across the table, Oswald narrows his eyes. “What _about_ Jim Gordon?” he echoes.

“We’ve considered and exhausted about every angle we could think of, but – what if we get law enforcement involved? The last time I checked, blackmailing someone into eliminating one’s opposing candidates is very much illegal. Even in Gotham,” Ed says and when Oswald doesn’t reply, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “And, much as I hate to admit it, Gordon is capable enough. Hence my suggestion.”

Then again, maybe it _was_ a stupid idea, judging by the way he can almost hear the cogs in Oswald’s head turning.

How would they even get Gordon to agree to this?

Ed braces himself for the inevitable outburst, rarely directed at his person these days but remembered well enough. Almost subconsciously, his hand goes to his neck and the small sliver of a scar that serves as a reminder from the night at the Kapelput apartment.

“Ed,” Oswald says, and Ed’s heart skips a beat. “You’re a–”

Here it comes.

“–genius,” Oswald finishes.

What?

Ed blinks a few times. “What?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,” Oswald says and there’s a spark in his eyes that Ed hasn’t seen in a while. “Hit Galavan from both sides, humiliate him _thoroughly_.” He smiles, bright and hopeful, before fixing his gaze on Ed. “A brilliant idea as always, my dear friend.”

Ed does his best not to preen under the unexpected praise.

Needless to say, he’s not very successful.

 

***

 

Oswald is coming to realize that Ed’s newfound confidence in his identity following the bank heist has the added side-effect of bringing out his desire for attention.

Which, to be fair, isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but once it starts to interfere with their work on defeating Galavan…

Well. He’s not happy about it, but he supposes Ed has a point. They want _attention_ , yes, but the right kind. And what Ed is currently proposing would delegitimize any action they take afterwards, which means the added trouble of even trying to contact the cops would be empty work.

“We’re _not_ publicly kidnapping James Gordon,” Oswald says for what feels like the hundredth time that day. They’re sitting in the library, killing time before Oswald has to meet with the representatives of the families – an unpleasant chore, if he’s being honest, but he’d known what he was getting into long before he even made the decision to betray Fish Mooney.

Ed’s face falls, again, and it’s like he’s not even trying to listen.

Oswald takes a deep breath. “I know you hate him after what happened with… with your arrest. I must confess I’m not particularly fond of the man myself–” for a long time, it was a lie he kept telling himself, but he finds it rings true now – “but kidnapping him is _not_ the way to do this. Most of the police force in this town might be stupid, but there are a few dangerous ones, ones that can and will pose a threat to everything we’re trying to accomplish. And you know how Bullock is – the man is like a bloodhound if Gordon’s in danger.”

Ed nods reluctantly, conceding the point.

“However,” Oswald continues, picking a stray piece of lint from his suit. “If you must, you can… procure Gordon yourself. But you _can’t_ make a public production out of it.”

“But that would defeat the purpose,” Ed argues, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “What good is doing it if nobody knows it was me? I _want_ them to know it was me, if only to prove to them how powerless they are. You know that.”

“But you don’t want to get _caught_ for it,” Oswald replies, and Ed nods again. “And as long as you’re on the roster for Arkham’s most wanted…”

Ed scoffs, as if the very thought is offensive. “As if any of them would figure out who I am. You know most people in this city have the attention span of a goldfish, the police very much included.”

“And that can work to our advantage,” Oswald says, shrugging. “Besides, I do have an inkling for an idea of how to clear your name.”

“The appellate court? I’ve considered the possibility but found it deficient,” Ed replies, cocking his head ever so slightly.

He’s in a good mood today, at least.

“I was thinking something more local,” Oswald responds with a smile. “I have connections. Let’s say some new evidence surfaces from the crimes, or the eye-witness recants his statement, or there are irregularities in the evidence against you, discovered after the fact. To err is human and all that, and with a _favorable_ judge, a verdict can be easily annulled.”

Ed smiles. “Good thinking,” he says, his grin growing wider.

Oswald shrugs, smiling. “One notices a few handy loopholes in the legal system if one is running the criminal underworld. Charges can be unstuck. But – and I must stress this – it _will_ take some time.”

“If I can truly have my freedom once more, it will mean the world to me. And you’ve already done so much for me, Oswald. I don’t know if there’s any way I can pay you back,” Ed says, looking like he truly means it.

He can’t possibly think…

“Ed, you need to do nothing of the sort. I would be lost without you,” Oswald says, and it seems to placate Ed somewhat, although he doesn’t look completely convinced.

For someone as boisterous and smug as Ed can be, he’s also surprisingly insecure – yet another thing that Oswald can’t help but love about him.

The man is, quite literally, an enigma.

 

***

 

Using chloroform to knock out Jim Gordon in an alleyway on his way home in order to kidnap him is firmly on the list of Ed’s most uninspiring crimes, but…

As much as he hates to admit it, Oswald was right. They can’t afford for him to be caught, not now when they’re so close to their primary goal.

So, he bites back the disappointment and drags Gordon into the back of the town car – courtesy of the Van Dahl estate – before getting into the driver’s seat and heading back to the manor.

The drive passes quickly, peppered with the occasional glance into the rearview mirror to check that Gordon is still unconscious. Because while Ed is in disguise – foregoing his glasses in favor of the contact lenses he’d used during the bank job, a long, stringy black wig, and a garish outfit – and he’s calculated and recalculated the appropriate dosage three times, plenty of variables remain.

However, as he pulls into the driveway of the house, it seems that all has gone to plan – Gordon’s still out like a light, and Zsasz and two of his henchwomen are waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

“He put up a fight?” Zsasz asks once Ed has exited the car.

“Have a guess,” he says, waving towards the backseat where the man in question is slumped over, unmarred except for the speck of mud on his cheek.

Zsasz laughs that strange, almost barking laugh of his. “That’s a no, then. Ladies,” he says and motions for them to fetch Gordon. They comply, even though the taller one shoots him a confused look.

“You sure he’s alive, Vic?” she asks, her voice raspy but strangely pleasant.

Zsasz rolls his eyes. “Nygma’s a… not a pro, but c’mon. Have a little faith.”

The woman shrugs and goes to help her companion.

“Is everything ready?” Ed asks once the ladies have gotten Gordon propped up between them. They’re surprisingly strong – between the two of them, it’s as if they’re not lugging around an adult man at all but merely having a pleasant walk.

“Yup,” Zsasz replies, holding the front door open for the girls. “Boss was very specific about it, too.”

“Good,” Ed says, and that’s that. He follows the trio – well, the quartet, really, but he doesn’t think an unconscious Gordon counts as more than, say, a duffle bag – into the house. The heavy front door falls shut behind him, and a quick glance back proves that Olga is already locking it.

“Mr. Penguin wait upstairs in library,” she tells him briskly, tucking the keyring into her apron once she’s done with the locks. She doesn’t look at him directly, which is a bit unnerving; he knows she doesn’t like him very much, but he’s never managed to figure out _why_.

But, Ed supposes, it doesn’t matter right now, so he nods his thanks and Olga turns away with a huff, probably on her way to the dining room to clean up after the meeting with the families. For a moment, Ed wonders how it went, but figures Oswald will tell him later, so there’s no point in dawdling any longer.

Zsasz and his henchwomen are already halfway up the stairs by the time he catches up with them, reaching into the chest pocket of his coat for the domino mask.

 

***

 

They’d decided not to tie Gordon up after a tense conversation on the matter – Ed had been adamant that they should, if only to make sure he doesn’t try and make a break for it, while Oswald had reasoned that tying him up only to ask for his help would be ridiculous. In the end, it had taken half an hour of bargaining and several cups of tea plus a fair amount of the peppermint and chocolate cookies Ed likes before they’d managed to resolve the issue.

Now that the time has come, Oswald waits in the library, dressed in his second-best suit and for all intents and purposes, ready for the battle. Once he hears the front door close, he knows it’s go-time.

He stands up, straightens the lapels of his suit and dims the lights, enough to see by but little enough that it’s hard to tell the size of the room – or how many people it may contain.

By all accounts, it’s a bit on the dramatic side; in Gotham, however, that _is_ the norm.

The door finally opens and Ed steps in, domino mask already in place, followed by Zsasz’s henchwomen dragging an unconscious Jim Gordon between the two of them with Zsasz himself bringing up the rear.

As agreed, the women deposit Gordon on one of the armchairs.

It’s almost funny, looking at him, this man who’d meant so much to him without ever giving anything in return – he’d saved Oswald’s life, once, but that was a long time ago. And it doesn’t come as a surprise that the fire in Oswald’s belly that had been there before when seeing him isn’t there anymore. It’s more of a relief, if anything.

How blind he had been, back in the day.

Oswald chuckles quietly as everyone but the taller of Zsasz’ henchwomen take their seats – Oswald himself in the middle of the sofa opposite the armchair, Ed at the piano bench on his left, furthest from the light but close enough that he can still observe and interfere if necessary, and Zsasz and the remaining henchwoman somewhere behind Oswald’s sofa. Most likely leaning against the bookshelves in a threatening manner, if Oswald knows Zsasz.

The taller henchwoman – Oswald isn’t sure what her name is; he’s never seen her before and Zsasz seems to rotate his companions according to a schedule Oswald doesn’t care to observe or understand – opens a tiny flask of smelling salts in front of Gordon’s rather substantial nose.

The man bolts upright after a moment or so, and the henchwoman closes the flask, slipping it into her pocket before taking her place next to Zsasz, just out of Oswald’s eyeline.

Showtime.

“Penguin,” Jim growls, squinting at him in the low light before glancing around the room. “And company.”

Time to ramp up the charm.

Oswald smiles, perfectly pleasant, before shrugging sheepishly.

“What do you want,” Jim asks, returning none of the pleasantries. Then again, Oswald can’t blame him – he’d be grumpy, too, if he’d been kidnapped; well, mostly furious, if he’s being honest.

“I would like to extend an offer of cooperation,” Oswald says.

Jim narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t arrest you for assault and kidnapping.”

“Jim. You and I, we share a bond in Theo Galavan,” Oswald says, and Jim’s eyes widen almost comically. “A passion, even. If there ever was a time for us to work together, _now_ is that time.”

“What do you know about Galavan?” Jim asks, leaning forward in the armchair.

“Now, now, old friend,” Oswald tuts. “Not before you agree.”

“Fine. _Fine_ ,” Jim says, eyes keen and trained on Oswald’s. It’s not as piercing a gaze as he remembers, somehow, Jim’s eyes too pale and… boring, even. He almost wants to laugh. “Tell me what you know.”

“Galavan is dangerous,” Oswald says, shrugging. “But you already know that. I’m guessing the whole department knows how crooked he is, but you don’t have enough proof to make any charges stick, do you?”

Jim nods, reluctantly.

Oswald glances towards Ed, who is watching him intently. He gives a small nod, and Ed returns it, accompanied by a tiny smile.

The distant crackle of a thunderstorm rolling in adds another layer of dramatic tension to the moment.

It’s absolutely perfect.

“I might be able to change that,” he says, turning back to Jim.

Oh, how he’s missed this.

 

***

 

All in all, it takes a week.

The arrest is made four days in, the _Gotham Gazette_ is reporting record sales by the sixth, and while Galavan is being transported from the holding cells at the station to await trial at Blackgate on the seventh day, they strike.

Well, _they_ in the loosest sense of the word, because Ed is mostly just along for the ride.

Oswald had insisted on personally overseeing Galavan’s retrieval, and Ed has been itching to see him at work like this from the day they’d first met.

Most of the organizational parts are his own doing, from the plan to hit while they’re transporting the man – it had been easy enough to arrange a few bribes for a select official or two who could provide the intel about the vehicle and the name of the driver on shift. Everything after that had been child’s play, mostly a matter of creating a timely distraction in the form of a bomb threat at the anniversary party of the Gotham Museum.

Which leads them to the riverside, alone – once the driver has received the address of the building where his family is being held captive by Zsasz and the ladies, that is.

Ed hangs back, letting Oswald take the stage; it’s _his_ long-awaited revenge, after all.

It’s only after the first shot from Oswald’s handgun hits that Galavan seems to realize that no help is coming, that he’s truly going to die here, alone and undignified, devoid of any power he’d held in the city.

Although, to be fair, Ed has to give the man points for his tenacity: even as the wound on his calf is steadily oozing blood, he remains upright.

Oswald makes the second shot, hitting his other leg, and Galavan lurches forward, dropping to his knees as his legs give out under him. Blood pools around him on the sand, almost black in the low light.

Oswald hands the gun over to Ed before turning away to pick up the baseball bat from the trunk of the car.

He’s taking his time, Ed realizes.

A small, insignificant part of him wants to look away, knowing what’s to come. He ignores it, keeps his eyes and the gun trained on Galavan, watching for even the smallest twitch in the wrong direction.  He watches as Oswald walks over with the baseball bat, watches as blow after blow lands, watches Galavan’s skin break and blossom with blood.

The man says something that Ed can’t hear, probably begging for death, and Oswald only laughs in response, the hollow sound drifting through the cool spring air around them. 

The knife for the final act is retrieved once Galavan is a shuddering mess on the sand, more a pile of minced meat than a human being.

Ed can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man.

With a hiss, Oswald, now covered with specks of blood, plunges the knife into Galavan’s back, somewhere between the fifth and sixth rib by the looks of it, the motion unnervingly elegant despite its cruelty.

A spurt of blood follows once the knife is removed.

The knife is reapplied, then removed again.

Reapplied, removed again, this time for good.

Ed puts the gun away and goes to stand next to Oswald.

It’s quiet tonight, the only sounds the lapping of the water against the riverbank, faraway traffic from the highway out of town, and the tiny, almost imperceptible gurgles that Galavan’s body is producing in exsanguination.

Or maybe it’s his ragged attempts at breathing through collapsed lungs.

It’s hard to tell.

In any case, they wait side-by-side until the sound finally ceases, and Ed calls Zsasz for the cleanup.

Oswald is silent beside him, eyes trained on Galavan’s corpse but eerily vacant.

After he’s done with the call – a few quick words, really, nothing else; Zsasz already knew the location – Ed touches his shoulder.

Oswald starts, tearing his eyes away from the battered corpse to look at Ed.

In a quiet voice, he mutters, “I always thought I’d feel better, after.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s over now,” Ed says and takes ahold of his arm to tug him gently towards the car. “You just need time to process it.”

Oswald nods, but doesn’t look very convinced at all.

 

***

 

Another week passes before the lawyer Oswald’s discreetly hired to take on Ed’s case gets back to them. It seems that the old platitude rings true: money can make even the most inconvenient of problems disappear.

Of course, added help to their case had been provided by the continuing mysterious disappearance of its director Hugo Strange, who’d only left behind a plethora of discrepancies in the institute’s paperwork and unanswered questions.

The law is flexible in Gotham, after all.

The certificate of sanity Ed had gotten once the process was done and the second psychological evaluation had been done looks official; for what Oswald had paid for it, it should.

 _The Gotham Board of Health and Hygiene states that Edward Nygma, having passed all the mandated tests and by the laws of Gotham City, is hereby declared sane,_ it declares in fancy cursive, accompanied by the signature of the newly assigned director of the asylum, a Quincy Sharp.

Frankly, even the idea of a sanity certificate had been hilarious at first, but what it represents...

In all honesty, Oswald would’ve shelled out a lot more money for that.

Because Ed is free of Arkham in the legal sense of the word, free to walk the streets by his side and free to take his rightful place as Oswald’s right-hand man. And that is worthy of celebration, which is why Friday night finds them getting ready to head out into the city.

Well, _would_ find them heading out, if Oswald wasn’t having trouble deciding what to wear. It’s a momentous occasion, so he should dress accordingly – he knows Ed is, in the custom-tailored green suit Oswald had given him as a thank-you gift for his help with Galavan.

The problem, as he sees it, is finding something for himself.

The suit itself is a no-brainer; the problem, as he sees it, lies in finding the perfect accessories. He’s kept the tie pin from the night back at the apartment, stored away in the drawer of his nightstand – so that’s taken care of. The ruby inlay calls for something complementary, but what?

Chevron is too dull, houndstooth lacks formality, brocade might come off as trying too hard, simple stripes and solid colors as irritatingly pedestrian – and that’s without even mentioning the gingham, a fleeting thought he’d discarded quicker than it occurred to him.

It’s hopeless.

Absolutely hopeless.

His leg is starting to cramp up from standing for too long, so he casts a final glare at the tie drawer and sits down on the ottoman at the foot of his bed to wallow in his misery.

And to think he’d been planning to confess his feelings to Ed tonight.

He’d gone so far as to prepare a speech, which he’d practiced and practiced until the words became almost mechanical, spilling from his lips with ease.

His moping is unjustly interrupted by a knock on the door, and he snaps for whoever it is that he’s busy.

Ed’s voice replies something from the other side of the door and Oswald gets up to open the door, perhaps a bit too quickly because there’s a stinging pain in his bad knee.

“Oh, hi,” he says, trying to ignore the increasing warmth in his cheeks.

“Are you ready to go?” Ed asks before checking his watch. “It’s already seven and our reservation is for eight thirty. I’ve allocated an hour for travel time, plus half an hour to spare, so we should get going.”

“Just a moment. I… I can’t decide between these two ties,” Oswald says quickly, acutely aware of his blush getting even worse.

 _What_ is going on with him?

He hobbles over to the tie drawer and grabs the first two ties he can see, a purple brocade and a ghastly aquamarine paisley. He takes a deep, calming breath before turning around and holding them out for inspection.

“I’m partial to the purple,” Ed says, eyeing the paisley nightmare with distaste and stepping closer to take the other. Gently as can be, he drapes it around Oswald’s neck and steps away to inspect the result.

“Striking,” Ed says, and the single word is enough for the lump in Oswald’s throat to double in size.

“It brings out my eyes,” he manages to reply, and mentally kicks himself.

_It brings out my eyes._

_It brings out my eyes._

This is a nightmare.

That’s the only possible explanation.

He’s known Ed for months.

Why is it only _now_ that he seems to be incapable of functioning around him?

It’s _Ed_.

Ed is safe.

Ed is wonderful.

Ed is… looking at him. And smiling.

Oswald stares back, trying to think of something to say.

Maybe he should…

Maybe he should do the speech now. It certainly seems like the right time.

“Ed. There’s something important I’ve been meaning to–“

There’s another knock on the door.

“–tell you.”

He’s going to kill whoever is behind that door.

Ed glances at him, a hint of confusion in his eyes, before going to open the door.

It’s Olga, looking sullen as ever. She narrows her eyes at Ed, then looks at Oswald, standing in the middle of the room in his shirt-sleeves with the purple tie still loosely around his neck, and narrows her eyes some more.

“What is it?” Oswald snaps, the combined forces of irritation and anxiety working themselves into a spectacular headache.

“Rude little _devushka_ downstairs. Say ‘have to talk to Mr. Penguin’,” Olga says, rolling her eyes.

“Whoever it is, tell her I’m busy,” Oswald replies, raising his eyebrows. They’d talked about this. Olga knows how important tonight is.

“Broke in. I tell her: leave, she say ‘have to talk to Mr. Penguin’. Threaten police, she say ‘have to talk to Mr. Penguin’,” Olga answers with a huff. After a beat, she mutters under her breath: “ _Neposlushnaya devushka_.”

Ed and Oswald exchange a look.

“Agile on my feet, I drive dogs mad. I flick my tail when I'm angry and hum when I'm glad,” Ed says.

“You don’t think…”

“It’s most likely her. It definitely sounds like her.”

Fair enough.

“We’ll be down soon,” Oswald tells Olga, and with a few deft movements, fixes up the tie still dangling from his neck.

Olga nods, narrows her eyes at Ed again – _what_ is her problem today? – and after a moment’s hesitation, nods again before turning to leave, closing the door behind her.

“What did you want to say?” Ed asks once she’s gone, the look of mild confusion returning to his face once more.

Oswald laughs awkwardly. “It’s… I don’t remember. Slipped my mind, it seems. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”

“That never happens to me,” Ed replies, frowning.

Right.

“Honestly? I can believe that. Hand me my jacket, will you?”

Ed frowns some more, but seems to decide to let the matter drop and picks up the jacket to hand it over.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the finale! surprisingly enough, it's the one chapter that stayed closest to its original shape. 
> 
>  
> 
> if you've stuck with me and with this story to the end, my deepest thanks.

***

 

Just as Ed had expected, Selina is waiting downstairs.

She doesn’t look particularly happy to be there, eyes trained on the landing and her feet on the table, leaning back in her chair precariously enough that a part of Ed wonders whether she’d topple over if spooked.

Probably not – cats always land on their feet, after all.

The question, as he sees it, is whether this one fits the mold.

But that theory must be tested at some later time, because she spots him as soon as he steps into the room.

“I thought asparagus was a vegetable, not an aesthetic,” she says, a tiny sliver of a smile playing at the corner of a mouth.

 _Like she’s the one to talk aesthetics with her tattered jacket and worn-out boots_ , a part of Ed whispers. _I doubt she even knows what the word means_.

Another part of him registers the smile that accompanied the words and decides they were most likely intended as a joke, not an insult.

Then again, the best jokes are often concealed insults.

“The suit was a gift. An expensive one, too. And _I_ thought cats were supposed to be good at sneaking around,” Ed replies once he’s chosen the best way to approach the situation.

He can’t expect Selina to reach his level, so he’ll acquiesce to address her on hers.

It seems to work because Selina only shrugs, smile growing wider. “I tried knocking. The old crone wouldn’t let me in, so I took matters into my own hands. Too bad I didn’t consider she’d be so spry for her old age, but hey. Another lesson learned.”

“How _did_ you get in?” Ed asks, crossing his arms. It’s unlikely that there would be a significant oversight in the security of the house… but if a teenager can break in, chances are they _have_ overlooked something.

Selina pretends not to hear the question, instead peering around Ed’s shoulder.

“Where’s Penguin?” she asks once she has determined the man has yet to enter the room.

“Still upstairs, getting ready. We’re going out,” Ed explains, and peers at his watch. “Well, _were_ going out. It’s unlikely we’ll make it to the restaurant on time now that you’re here.”

Selina grins knowingly, ignoring the accusation in Ed’s tone. “Date night, huh?”

 _If only_ , the traitorous part of Ed’s mind suggests. _How could someone like him want you? Well, **us**. But mostly you. It doesn’t stop you from dreaming, though, does it? Late at night when the house is empty and you’re all alone… _

Ed shakes his head to dispel _that_ particular train of thought and has to remind himself that getting mad at himself is… questionable, to say the least. And it’s useless to debate anything with Selina, so he elects to not respond to the insinuation at all.

“Why are you here, Selina?” he asks instead.

“I have information. For a price, of course. But I want to talk to _Penguin_ ,” Selina says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Not his boy toy.”

And Ed had thought they’d been getting on rather well. “I can pay you, and if your information is what I suspect it is, it concerns me more than it does him,” he replies, crossing his arms. “And I’m _not_ his boy toy.”

Whatever Selina is about to say is cut off by the sound of a door falling shut upstairs and familiar lurching footsteps.

Seems it doesn’t matter now.

At least one of them will get what they want.

They wait patiently until Oswald emerges, appearance impeccable as always, the purple tie Ed had recommended tied snugly around his neck, the color accentuating his already intense eyes, further emphasized by a hint of eyeliner.

 _Striking_ , indeed.

It almost makes him want to discard every plan he’s made, every thought about leaving which still plagues his mind and just… _stay_.

Stay here, where for the first time in his life he feels that he belongs.

Stay here, where there is something more than a cold shoebox of an apartment or a tiny cell in a place where the cacophonous screams of lunatics ring through the halls, both filled with aching loneliness.

Stay here, with Oswald, even if the lives-not-lived that haunt him day and night – that he is refusing to _think about right now_ – eventually drive him insane.

If he isn’t _already_ insane.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ed can see Selina pointedly raising an eyebrow at him.

He pretends not to notice.

 

***

 

Oswald hopes his annoyance isn’t showing.

He’ll be damned if he’ll repeat his parents’ mistakes – no, one way or another, he knows what he wants and what needs to be done to attain that. And what he wants is currently leaning against the wall about ten feet away, clad in a bespoke green suit and looking at him with a cryptic expression.

Oswald allows himself to be distracted for a moment before returning his focus to the matter at hand.

Right.

He’s not angry with Selina, per se. If anything, he’s angry with what she represents: an unwelcome distraction on what is quite possibly the most important night of his life. And despite her terrible timing, Selina _is_ useful. Probably far more so than most people on his payroll, so he sets aside his annoyance and smiles before greeting her.

“I heard you guys were on your way to a date, so I’ll make this quick,” the girl says and, despite his best efforts to keep his face neutral, Oswald can feel his cheeks reddening.

It’s not a date.

Not yet, anyway.

Although, to be honest, he doesn’t really know what a date is supposed to be, anyway. In the old movies he’d watched with his mother when he was younger, dates had included flowers and gifts and expensive meals and soulful declarations and kisses, which seems about right.

Then again, they’d also included women – an element which is (hopefully) missing entirely from his situation.

“What is it, then?” Oswald asks, stepping closer.

“Money first,” Selina says. “Then I’ll talk.”

Oswald has to bite back the less-than-savory words that threaten to escape his mouth and takes a deep, calming breath. “Fine,” he says. “But it _better_ be good. How much?”

“Five hundred,” she replies, quick as a whip.

Finding he’s in a charitable enough mood to see there’s no point in arguing with her, Oswald rolls his eyes and hands the sum over without protest.

Selina accepts the bank notes and stuffs them into the pocket of her jacket. “Pleasure doing business with you. Anyway, you know Sonny?”

“Butch Gilzean’s nephew? I’ve heard of him,” Oswald says, unsure of where she’s going with this. Sonny Gilzean is but a tiny cog in the great machine of Gotham, not particularly noteworthy aside from his familial affiliations. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I may have _accidentally_ overheard Sonny talk about his uncle,” Selina says, the smug little smirk on her face saying her overhearing said conversation was anything but an accident. “Well, _brag_ , more like. But the point is, I know you’ve got beef with Butch. And I might know where he is.”

“ _Might_?” Ed pipes up, turning to face her. “You wanted five hundred dollars for a ‘ _might’_?”

Oswald shares the sentiment.

Selina shrugs. “Be glad I didn’t ask for more. Anyway, as far as I know he’s holed up somewhere in Otisburg with Tabitha Galavan.”

“Galavan as in–” Oswald starts, hints of something important that has lain dormant thus far tugging at the edges of his memory, waiting to be set free.

Selina looks at him for a moment, frowning ever so slightly. “The ex-mayor’s sister? Yeah. Apparently, they had a massive fight a little while before he was arrested. Probably about him planning to kill Bruce Wayne, but I’m just guessing. Anyway, she left and Butch took her in.”

Oswald glances towards Ed, who is decidedly not meeting his gaze.

He _knew_.

He _knew_ that Galavan had a sister, and he never said anything.

It’s a knife to the back, a bullet to the clavicle, a baseball bat to the knee. It’s betrayal, it’s anger, it’s hurt – all hinging on a sliver of obscured information.

 _Why_ didn’t Ed say anything?

It doesn’t make sense – or maybe it does.

There is a chance Ed didn’t know about Tabitha’s role in his mother’s death.

Maybe there is an explanation.

There is a chance he might be wrong about this, might be misjudging the look of guilt on Ed’s face – but his heart tells him otherwise.

Curiously enough, while the realization stings, it doesn’t fill him with anger. Instead, in its place is a small, tangled ball of hurt and disappointment that unravels with his second realization in about as many minutes.

In his own way, Ed could’ve been trying to protect him.

At this point, it’s a leap of faith, a question of what to believe – and, despite himself, Oswald finds he wants to believe the best of Ed.

It’s…

Something.

Selina coughs and the sound yanks him out of his thoughts. “Right, well. I’ve got places to be. See ya,” she says, making a beeline for the door.

She’s out of the house before they can stop her – not that they try.

 

***

 

So much for their nice evening.

The sound of the front door closing feels like the final nail being hammered into his coffin.

Ed braces himself for the inevitable storm.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, Oswald simply asks what the time is, and Ed checks his watch.

“It’s half past seven,” he says and Oswald nods.

“It’ll be close, but we can still make the reservation,” Oswald says and turns to head out the door.

Ed doesn’t move.

Is he…

He _must_ know.

It had been apparent in the way his brow had furrowed once he heard the name of Galavan’s sister. And yet, where Ed expects a flurry of rage and disappointment, nothing arrives.

Either he’s wrong and Oswald doesn’t _know_ – or, more likely, he _does_ , and is currently imagining the best way to tear out his spine.

Neither seem like a particularly good option.

“Ed? Are you coming?” Oswald asks from somewhere down the hallway, shaking him out of his train of thought.

Right.

Ed follows.

 

***

 

If it was anyone else, Oswald would relish watching them squirm.

With Ed, however…

The conversation is tense and stilted at the dinner, nervousness making Ed spout even more riddles than usual – but it has the unintended effect of diluting the flood of disappointment in Oswald’s veins and replacing it with affection.

And oh, how _pathetic_ that is.

Because despite everything, despite Ed doing the one thing Oswald had made him promise never to do again, he cannot find it in himself to feel the rage he expects when looking at someone who has failed him.

And that makes Ed dangerous, far more so than any gun or knife or drug.

 _When you know what a man loves, you know what can kill him._ _Your greatest passion becomes your greatest weakness,_ he’d told someone in a previous life.

He’d known his own weakness back then, and had it stolen from him with the glint of a dagger. And he’d gotten past that, somehow, had learned to look back on his mother’s memory with joy instead of sorrow, and been invincible.

But what he hadn’t expected, what he’d never even considered, was that once one weakness is gone, another might take its place – and that he wouldn’t be able to find it in himself to be angry about it.

Because he _should_ be angry, should know by now that for someone like him, love can only be a weakness. But even he, for all the power he has, for all that he holds the city in the palm of his hand, can’t control that most elusive of human emotions.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to.

Because _this_ is the one weakness he can turn into a strength.

Somehow.

“So, about Tabitha…” Ed starts, pulling him from his thoughts.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, so Oswald waves at a passing waiter and orders another bottle of wine.

Ed looks more than a little bit like he’s about to run for the hills, eyes wide and nervous, hands set on the table in front of him to conceal their minute shaking. If Oswald didn’t know what to look for, the picture of nonchalant calm Ed’s projecting might fool him.

But they know each other far too well.

“I know,” Oswald says simply, even though he doesn’t.

But it seems to be enough to prompt Ed to confess his sins, whatever they may be.

“I’ve failed you. I should’ve told you about her, but I just–” Ed blurts out, trying to conceal the shaking of his hands now by wringing them together and apart– “ended up lying by omission. I apologize.”

Oswald waves his hand. “It’s already forgotten. Don’t worry about it,” he says, the words leaving his mouth before he realizes that he actually _means_ them, and it still comes as a surprise.

And Ed stares back at him with the same cryptic expression he’d had back at the house. It seems ordinary on his face by now, something new that has become as familiar as the sharpness of his gaze or the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Briefly, Oswald wonders how many other things there are to discover about him.

“Are you sure?” Ed asks eventually, and seems to look not at Oswald but into him, down to the deepest parts of who he is.

Oswald tries his best not to fidget under the intense scrutiny.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he says, shrugging before reaching out for his wine glass.

Ed frowns in response but doesn’t push the matter further.

 

***

 

Perhaps things aren’t as bad as Ed thought they were, after all.

With that unpleasantness out of the way, the rest of the dinner goes relatively smoothly. But he can tell Oswald’s mind is elsewhere – because at this point, it’s become almost his job to notice the shifts in the other’s mood and adjust accordingly.

“You’re still thinking about it,” he says once they’re halfway through dessert. It’s opera cake with tart raspberry mousse, overall a bit on the richer side than Ed would prefer – but it _is_ good. Probably not for his waistline in the long run, but an indulgence every now and then won’t hurt.

Oswald looks at him, brow creased. “About who?”

“Galavan’s sister. I know that look,” Ed says, and he does, knows the precise way Oswald’s mouth turns and his eyes narrow when he’s thinking about someone he wants dead.

Oswald offers a smile. “Guilty as charged.”

“What do you want to do about her, then?” Ed asks before taking another forkful of the cake.

“I _want_ to kill her. But perhaps she could be of more use alive,” Oswald replies, shrugging. He’s already finished his dessert, and the wineglass in his hand is being emptied at a spectacular rate.

“Because of Butch,” Ed says, eyes widening with understanding.

Oswald smiles. “Because of Butch.”

A few phone calls, another bottle of wine, and the rest of Ed’s cake later, they’re en route to the hospital in Coventry where Tabitha Galavan is being treated for injuries sustained in an _unfortunate_ traffic collision.

She’ll live, probably – even though, personally, Ed doesn’t care either way. She never did anything to him, anyway; his only dislike for her is on Oswald’s behalf.

Finding and accessing the correct room is a simple question of a well-placed bribe, made simpler by the fact they don’t need to enter the room itself, per se, just the attached waiting area.

However, as they’re waiting the elevator that will take them to the correct floor, Ed spots a familiar face exiting the door to the geriatrics ward. He’s wearing different clothes, but it’s unquestionably the same boy.

Well, same _young man_ , who looks more or less the same as Ed remembers him being: the same ghost-white skin, the same sand-colored hair in desperate need of a good trim, the same lanky limbs and blank expression.

_I was crucified to keep murders out of the maize. What am I?_

The elevator dings.

Oswald steps in, the bouquet of yellow carnations they’d picked up on the way hanging loosely in his hand.

Ed hesitates.

“Ed? Is something wrong?” Oswald asks once he realizes Ed didn’t enter the elevator with him, leaning forward to put his arm in between the doors so they don’t close on them mid-sentence.

Ed shakes his head. “Everything is fine, I just… I have to say hello to someone. An old friend. Will you be okay dealing with Butch alone?”

“ _Ed_. I was dealing with people far worse than Butch long before I met you,” Oswald says, raising an eyebrow, although the look in his eyes says he’s more surprised than displeased by the question. “Don’t worry about me.”

Right.

He _is_ the Penguin.

“I’ll wait here, then,” Ed replies, glancing at the registration desk where Jonathan is having a hushed conversation with the receptionist over some paperwork. He hasn’t disappeared just yet, it seems.

Oswald nods his assent and draws his arm back, letting the elevator doors close. Ed watches the numbers on the display until they reach the correct floor before turning and going to have a seat on one of the uncomfortable, patchy chairs nearby.

He waits until Jonathan is finished with whatever he’s doing, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’d liked Jonathan, back in the asylum, even before the whole Indian Hill infiltration plan – of which Jonathan had been an integral part, if he’s being honest.

“Hi, Jonathan. Long time no see,” he says as Jonathan approaches, standing up to shake his hand.

If the kid is at all surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it.

“Hello, Ed. Funny seeing you here,” Jonathan says, voice slightly less monotonous than Ed remembers it being.

“I’m visiting someone,” Ed says. “Well, I’m accompanying a friend who is visiting someone. I’d introduce you – I’m sure he’d love to meet you – but he already went upstairs.”

“You mean the Penguin, right?” Jonathan replies. “I saw you with him earlier.”

Ed smiles.

It would be interesting to see the two interact – Jonathan with his blank monotony, Oswald with emotion practically oozing out of his very being.

Fortunately, the night is still young.

“There’s a loose end that needs to be dealt with,” Ed says, shrugging. “You know how it is.”

Jonathan nods in response, moving slightly to the left to let a young couple pass.

“So, why are you here?” Ed asks once it becomes clear Jonathan isn’t going to carry on the conversation without some prompting.

It’s a curious thing, one that Ed hasn’t seen in anyone else he’s met so far in his life – Jonathan listens, participates in conversation happily enough, but rarely offers up anything simply for the sake of continuing said conversation.

Part of Ed wonders if it was the exposure to the chemical cocktail his father had doused him with that caused it, or if he’s just always been this way.

“My great-grandmother had an accident,” Jonathan says, voice devoid of anything suggesting a reaction towards said accident. “She died half an hour ago.”

“My condolences,” Ed says and Jonathan’s lips twitch.

“Thank you,” he says, a tiny spark in his eyes as if remembering something funny.

Seems the lack of fear affects the processing of other emotions as well.

Fascinating.

 

***

 

Just as Oswald had expected, Butch is sitting in the waiting room, chewing his nails.

The filthy traitor jumps up the moment he sees Oswald entering, hand going to where there should be a hidden gun. “ _You_ ,” Butch says, eyes wide and face panicked once he realizes the gun isn’t there, that he’s defenseless against the man standing across the room.

The progression of thought from apprehension to downright fear is delightful to watch.

“ _Me_ ,” Oswald replicates the inflection, smiling as patronizingly as he can. The bouquet is tucked neatly behind his back, allowing for a slight but agonizing delay in Butch’s already slow thought process as he tries to figure out why Oswald is there.

“I thought you were dead,” Butch says, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t you watch the news anymore, Butch?” Oswald replies, smile still firmly in place. “I’ve been back for months.”

Butch swallows, the movement of his throat visible even from across the room. “What do you want?” he asks, tone laced with tension and contempt.

Oswald steps closer, close enough that he can see a small bead of sweat running down Butch’s temple, before revealing the bouquet.

Ed had picked out the flowers, citing something about the Victorians and flower language – apparently, yellow carnations signal disappointment. A perfect choice, Oswald realizes, now that he is looking at his former right-hand man.

“I heard about poor Tabby,” he says, looking Butch right in the eye and smiling sweetly. “I came to offer my condolences.”

Oswald watches as the few cogs in Butch’s mind turn until they _ping_ to a conclusion, and by the way his eyes widen, it seems he’s arrived at the correct one.

“ _You_ did this to her,” Butch says, hand still hovering near the pocket. “You’re here to gloat.”

Bingo.

 _Seems the gorilla does have a brain somewhere in that big skull after all_ , a voice that sounds an awful lot like Ed’s says somewhere in the back of his mind.

Oswald smiles again. “Yes and no. I’m here to tell you I can do so much more than a little bit of grievous bodily harm. I mean, look at what happened to her poor brother. But if you want to keep your Tabby by your… _sizeable_ side, you need to do exactly what I tell you to do. Or I’ll finish the job myself. Either way, the choice is yours.”

Butch thinks for a moment.

“Okay,” he says tentatively. “Shoot.”

What a poor choice of words.

Oswald does his best not to laugh.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of a man called Hugo Strange,” he says.

Butch nods, confusion written plain across his features.

“Find him.”

“That’s it?” Butch asks, frowning as if he can’t believe Oswald’s request would be that simple.

“That’s it. Find him by the end of the week and I’ll let dear Ms. Galavan live. That is, unless she dies of her own volition,” Oswald says, handing over the bouquet. “But I can’t be held accountable for that.”

Butch takes the flowers, almost on auto-pilot, still frowning.

“You want me to find someone in three days?” he asks, still holding the flowers as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Oswald hopes he’ll find the greeting card. _That_ had been Ed’s idea, adding the slightest bit of insult to injury, and it had delighted him to no end.

“Two days,” Oswald says. “It’s Friday night already, or did you forget?”

 

***

 

By the time Oswald gets back downstairs, Jonathan has gone.

Ed sits with his back to the wall, keeping an eye on the front door, lost in thought even as his eyes watch the people passing by with detached curiosity.

_After all, we're all standing at the edge of the abyss, paralyzed by fear. It’s the only thing standing between us and diving in._

Jonathan had said that, back at the asylum, and Ed had thought him odd for it. But perhaps the kid had had a point, after all – because he _has_ been afraid and continues to be so, no matter how much he reassures himself that even though he’s seen what might have been and/or what might be to come, even though there has been a harbor, a gun, a single bullet to the gut on a rainy afternoon and the ache of regret, that isn’t necessarily the way it _has_ _to_ be.

Because he’s different from the man he is in his dreams, unburdened by _his_ pain and heartache, unburdened by _his_ guilt. But perhaps most important of all, he knows how to avoid becoming _him_.

Which is wherein lies the problem.

Because even though they may be prophetic dreams, or visions, or simply strange dreams, they aren’t a guarantee that whatever course of action he takes will be a successful one – since the timelines he sees are sewn together with events that never took place in this life, there’s no telling what might come to pass.

But a part of him wonders, still.

“Who was your friend?” Oswald’s voice asks from somewhere near his shoulder.

Ed hadn’t even noticed the sound of the elevator. He turns to look and as he’d expected, Oswald is standing there, _sans_ bouquet.

“A young man I met back at the asylum. I don’t know if you remember him, but his name is Jonathan Crane. He… he helped me get into Indian Hill,” Ed says, standing up. “He’s part of the reason I found you. _This_ you.”

“We wouldn’t be here without him, if that’s the case. I’ll have someone send a gift basket,” Oswald replies, the words curt but the soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth everything but.

“How was Butch?” Ed asks, only mildly disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to see the look on the man’s face himself. “Did he figure it out?”

Oswald laughs, a sharp and contrasting sound in the half-empty room. “He figured it out, all right. It’s taken care of, for now. Butch knows better than anyone that I keep my promises.”

“How much time did you give him?”

“What’s always coming but never arrives?” Oswald asks, the riddle rolling off his tongue like syrup. Yet another indulgence for a night full of them.

“Tomorrow,” Ed answers. “Is it enough?”

Oswald smiles. “The day after tomorrow, in this case. And it’ll have to be, if he wants to keep her alive.”

Either Butch finds Strange and saves Tabitha’s life for a little while longer while they get some answers, or he fails and Oswald gets his revenge. It’s a beautiful little trick, and Ed can’t help but admire Oswald for thinking of it. His own approach would’ve been perhaps cleaner but nowhere near as efficient – and if there’s one thing Ed appreciates above showmanship, it’s artful efficiency.

“Are you ready to go home?” Oswald asks after a moment, glancing at the clock above the registration desk that reads a little past eleven.

Home.

It sounds good, even if the night is still young.

And it will give Ed a chance to change his fate once and for all.

 

***

 

Once they’re back at the manor, they retreat to the downstairs drawing room with the fireplace purely out of habit.

Ed has been looking troubled ever since the hospital but insisting it’s nothing to worry about, which isn’t the mindset Oswald needs him to be in for what he’s about to do, but he supposes it’s as good a time as he’s going to get.

The mere thought of the speech he’d so carefully prepared sends his heart racing, now that there is both time and opportunity for it, the words ringing through his head with the clarity of a bell but melting on the tip of his tongue.

_My mother once told me, “Life only gives you one true love, Oswald. When you find it, run to it.”_

No, that was from an early draft. It was…

_A man comes to a crossroads in his life and he has to make a choice._

_Does he choose safety and cowardice?_

_Or does he opt for courage and risk everything?_

_I choose courage._

_So, here goes nothing…_

No, that’s not right.

_What I was trying to tell you tonight is that…_

_Is that…_

Even thinking of thinking the words seems to be too much; it’s a good thing he’s sitting down.

_Is that I love you._

His palms are starting to sweat. The light in the fireplace is too dim and too bright all at once, panic once again rising in his throat to close it up and make it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s just the lack of air in the room, or the fact Ed is sitting but a few feet away – it’s hard to tell.

Oswald clears his throat. “Ed…” he starts, heart hammering at what feels like the speed of light as he finds himself wishing that he’d had more wine, or a cup of ginger tea like his mother used to make, or a bottle of vodka.

Something, anyway, to take the edge off.

Ed turns towards him, the light from the fireplace creating shifting shadows over his cheekbones.

“Remember when I said I had something important to tell you?” Oswald asks, mostly to buy himself some time to figure out how the hell to calm down. He’s never felt this weak before, not when Fish had broken his leg or anytime during and/or after the innumerable amount of beatings he’d endured back in school.

It’s nothing short of incredible that people submit themselves to this special kind of torture voluntarily.

“I remember,” Ed says, a tiny crease forming between his brows. “Will you tell me now?”

Oswald opens his mouth but no words come out.

 

***

 

Oswald looks a little bit like he’s going to cry.

Or run out of the room.

Whichever comes first.

And it’s new to Ed, another facet of him making its debut when Ed thinks he’s got everything figured out – and yet, it’s nothing new at the same time, fitting in with the rest of Oswald’s behavioral pattern well enough that Ed finds himself surprised he’d never expected it.

Because Oswald remains the same throughout his incarnations, anchored in who and what he is so firmly that even death cannot change it.

And Ed doesn’t know whether to admire or fear it, whether to be envious or worried of that stone-cold surety of self that is completely alien to him, having spent most of his life in fluctuating identities, easily taken on and just as easily discarded, never quite finding one that fits.

But perhaps he’s been thinking about it all wrong. Perhaps no matter how much he might want to, he can’t be who he is without help. And if there’s anyone he’s willing to accept or solicit said help from, it’s Oswald.

And right now, it seems like Oswald needs his help, too.

Ed is painfully aware that improvising isn’t always his strong suit, so he’ll adapt the primary plan of action to where they are now and not where he’d intended for them to be. In any case, what he needs is a distraction, something to take Oswald’s mind off whatever is bothering him, and redirect his attention elsewhere.

Placing his bets on emotion over reason is the best plan Ed can come up with on such short notice. In any case, it seems as good a time as he’s going to get, even if it isn’t exactly the way he’d pictured making his big confession.

Which is why, seeing as Oswald seems to be completely tongue-tied for the time being, he picks one of his favorite riddles, relaying the words he’s known by heart for years, keeping them buried deep until the right person comes along.

Oswald’s face falls the slightest bit once he figures out Ed’s asking him a riddle and it stings a little, that reaction, but at least he’s not vocalizing his disappointment. If he did, Ed’s pretty sure _he’d_ be the one to run for the hills. Because as long as it isn’t outright rejection, there remains a glimmer of hope.

 _Before a circle let appear twice twenty-five_ – the Roman numeral for fifty, which is L, before O – _and five in the rear_ – in a similar vein, V, or five, follows – _one fifth of eight subjoin_ – the word has five letters, one of which is E – _and then you'll quickly find what conquers men_ : love.

He just hopes Oswald understands.

 

***

 

“Before a circle let appear twice twenty-five, and five in the rear. One fifth of eight subjoin, and then you'll quickly find what conquers men,” Ed says softly, as if sharing a secret and not a riddle.

Why exactly Ed keeps insisting on these riddles, Oswald isn’t sure – while they’re endearing sometimes, Ed tends to blurt them out at inopportune moments when there’s far more important things that Oswald needs to think about, or talk about, without having conversations and trains of thought derailed.

And he supposes Ed has his quirks, just as Oswald himself does – which, if he’s being honest, doesn’t really change how he feels about Ed, but doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to be annoyed with him every now and then, either. And Ed distracting him while he’s trying to confess his feelings for the first time in his life is, in his opinion, a good reason for being annoyed.

“I can give you another one if it’s too difficult,” Ed says quietly when Oswald doesn’t answer the riddle quickly enough, and where Oswald had, out of habit, expected condescension, there’s not even a hint of it when Ed says, “Please, Oswald. It’s important.”

“Fine. If you must,” Oswald replies, rubbing his temples.

“I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I’m worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?” Ed asks, waving his hands in a delicate pattern to punctuate the words. Oswald decides that since Ed won’t let the matter drop, he might as well give it a shot.

_I can’t be bought._

_But I can be stolen with a glance._

Not a material object, then.

And most likely not anything with material value.

A… a feeling, perhaps?

_Worthless to one._

_Priceless to two._

It’s…

But what has that got to do with…

Oh.

It’s as if all air has been punched out of his lungs with a sledgehammer.

 _Oh_.

“Do you give up?” Ed asks, and where Oswald has come to expect smug self-satisfaction, there is none.

 

***

 

It’s as if Ed’s suspended underwater.

Two riddles, one answer – it seems almost poetic, when he thinks about it.

And Oswald’s eyes are wide as saucers, his mouth hanging open the slightest bit as if he’s about to speak but no words come out. Whatever is stopping him from relinquishing the answer, it isn’t confusion – because there is understanding, in the dilation of his pupils and the soft line of his mouth, in the way the frown he’d been wearing moments before has been replaced with the starting hints of a smile.

“Do you give up?” Ed asks, a gentle prompt for the answer they both already know. Because while it’s an answer worth waiting for, Ed is not a patient man.

“Love,” Oswald finally, _finally_ breathes out, and the word seems to hover in the space between them, saturating the very room with a soft warmth.

“Correct,” Ed says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a flood of relief blossoming somewhere behind his ribs, because he was right. Because Oswald _understands_.

Despite their differences, or perhaps _because_ of them, he understands Ed in a way that no one else ever has – and isn’t that all he’s ever wanted? All that anyone ever wants? To be seen, to be understood by another, to stave off the ache of loneliness by finding someone to share it with?

And while _love_ by itself is unlikely to be the answer to everything, to what’s behind them and what’s yet to come, for now, it’s enough. Because Oswald is staring at him in wordless wonder, and it quiets the voice inside his head that says he’s not good enough – because the person who matters most seems to think he is.

“I told you once – before I met _you_ – that for some, love is a source of strength, but for us, it will always be our most crippling weakness. Perhaps I was a bit… erroneous in my conviction, back then,” Ed says, moving the slightest bit closer. “But I know the truth now.”

Oswald watches him with wide eyes, the firelight lending its soft glow to his features, illuminating them, adding color and softness to their harsh lines to elevate them to something otherworldly, reminiscent of a painting Ed saw at an art gallery a few years ago.

He’ll steal that and give it to him, he decides there and then, in the split second before he says the three words he knows will change everything. He’d steal the very stars from the sky, if Oswald asked him to.

Because while Ed isn’t sure if he believes in the idea of _true love_ – if it _is_ real, then he’s had two by now, which seems the slightest bit excessive, if he’s being honest – he _does_ believe in fate.

Fate brought them together, and fate will be the only thing that can tear them apart; but fate hinges on the choices they make.

And by whatever higher power may exist in the endless depths of the Universe, Ed hopes he’s finally made the right one.

 

***

 

“I love you,” Ed says and at first, Oswald doesn’t register the words.

Then, in a landslide rush of relief and happiness, they finally hit home, nestle themselves somewhere behind his ribs where he knows they’ll stay until the day he dies.

If he was a religious man, Oswald would send out a quick prayer as a thank-you to whatever cosmic entity looks over them. After brief consideration, he does so anyway, because the deepest, most precious of his wishes has finally come true.

Ed loves him.

 _Ed_ loves him.

Ed loves _him_.

And he doesn’t know what to say.

But seeing the tiny hint of worry clouding Ed’s eyes when his reply is delayed finally gives him the boost of courage that he’s been missing.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say as well,” Oswald tells him, moving closer until he’s half-sure he could count the flecks of gold and green in Ed’s irises if he wanted to. And there will be plenty of time to do that, further down the line. Because whatever may be waiting for them in the elusive future, they won’t have to witness it alone. “By which I mean – I love you, too.”

Ed’s answering smile is almost blinding. “I love you,” he says again,

“I love you,” Oswald repeats back with the same relish.

Ed responds by leaning his forehead against Oswald’s, and he’s close but not close enough, which is why Oswald closes the remaining distance between them and presses his mouth to Ed’s.

It’s a little bit awkward and more than a little bit thrilling, electricity running through his veins and stars on the backs of his eyelids, rising to downright heavenly when Ed kisses him back.

 _So **this** is why people do it, lay out their very being for another – just for the off chance that the feeling might be reciprocal_, he thinks once they pull apart, breathless and giddy like children.

He can’t say it isn’t worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a final teaser/cliffhanger because i love those: if i find enough time to write it, there might be an epilogue to this one day.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took some time, but an epilogue is finally here! as a side-note: i may or may not have gotten a little bit self-indulgent. i also regret nothing.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> thank you all for reading and please enjoy!

**One month later**

 

Ed didn’t think he’d ever get used to the house being full of people. Well, _people_ besides himself and Oswald – and, he supposes, Olga as well, even with her brash demeanor, even worse moods, and leaving every night at precisely ten to go… well, wherever she goes at precisely ten. Most likely to a gambling den. Or perhaps a nursing home.

In any case, it doesn’t matter. The point is this – Ed had never expected to get used to the house being full of people.

And yet.

And yet, now that the campaign to get Oswald appointed as the mayor of Gotham City is well and truly underway, he finds it increasingly difficult to recall the way things had been, _before_. Or, at least, before the dining room became constantly full of campaign staff – hand-selected by Ed himself, with the utmost care, of course – and miscellaneous other personae during daylight hours.

Of course, he’d expected nothing else.

Then again, he’d never expected he’d start his year in lock-up and, mere months later, end up managing what is quite possibly the most expensive and, dare he say it, efficient mayoral campaign the city has ever seen – all for the benefit of someone he loves.

Speaking of.

Ed looks up over the clipboard he’s been unseeingly staring at for the past minute or so, and lets his eyes scan the room. He finds what he’s looking for almost immediately – or, perhaps more specifically, _who_ – since Oswald is across the room from him, immersed in a conversation with one of the junior strategists.

He looks good, Ed thinks, well-rested – radiant, even; the life of a politician agrees with him. As does bossing people around, Ed supposes, but, then again, who _doesn’t_ love that?

There is, however, also the slightest hint of tension in the line of Oswald’s shoulders – he’s been standing up for far too long, then. Ed is going to have to have words with him on that over lunch; he’ll have to bring up the uncomfortable topic of a walking cane up yet again.

Not that Oswald ever really listens when it comes to Ed’s concerns about his health, but still.

He must have been looking for longer than he’d thought, because Oswald looks away from the junior strategist – who, holding a clipboard of her own, has a look on her face that can only be described as awe mixed with a hint of terror even as she goes over the results of their recent poll in the Narrows (which were overwhelmingly positive, Ed already knows). Once he sees who is looking, Oswald smiles, the junior strategist and the poll all but forgotten.

Ed smiles back.

The junior strategist stops speaking almost immediately, once she notices what’s happening, and slinks off to terrorize some volunteers working on the designs of the second wave of campaign posters.

Oswald steps closer. “I didn’t see you at breakfast,” he says quietly, the smile still firmly in place.

It’s half for appearances’ sake, Ed knows, but it still warms him to see it.

“I had some business to take care of.”

Namely, business concerning the whereabouts of one Hugo Strange; the little weasel has proven to be surprisingly elusive. And, since Ed has yet to verify this newest lead, Oswald doesn’t need to know about it at the moment.

However, citing _business_ is apparently not a satisfying answer, because Oswald narrows his eyes. “Really? And would this ‘business’ of yours be of the official or the unofficial variety?” he asks, voice laced with sweetness even as the words themselves would no doubt sound innocuous enough to anyone who happened to overhear.

It’s a new trick of his, that – and, unfortunately, one that works far too well, in Ed’s humble opinion.

But then there is also the _agreement_ – the existence of which Ed is promptly reminded of when one of the staffers taps him on the elbow. “Sir–” the staffer says, eyes trained on a sheet of paper in his hands. Once he looks up, however, he must see something in Ed’s glare that warns him off, because the guy scampers off quicker than he’d arrived.

Still, the bubble is burst.

“I’ll tell you later,” Ed says, and tries to ignore the flash of disappointment that crosses Oswald’s face. “Remember the agreement.”

Another, responding flash of distaste reassures him that Oswald does, in fact, remember the agreement. “Fine. I’d like to have lunch in an hour: you can tell me then. Any new developments in fundraising?”

It’s an olive branch – and one that Ed’s perfectly willing to take advantage of. So, he smiles, and gently steers Oswald towards the nearest available chair. “Well, now that you mention it…”

 

***

 

Almost like clockwork, they find themselves in the library for lunch precisely an hour later.

Although, Oswald supposes, said adherence to clockwork-like time management is precisely what makes Ed such an incredible campaign manager.

And, hopefully, an incredible chief of staff to his mayoral office – although he is yet to ask Ed in as many words.

It would mean the agreement – the cursed, despicable, infuriating _agreement_ – would have to last longer than the election period, and thus, ironically, longer than initially agreed upon.

Then again, if – _when_ , he needs to keep reminding himself, as Ed often does for him – Oswald becomes mayor, he can do whatever the hell he wants.

Whether the citizens of Gotham, his constituents, agree with that, however, is another matter.

Hence the creation of and continued adherence to the agreement – shorthand for ‘ _the agreement to obfuscate the nature of our interpersonal relationship for the duration of the mayoral campaign_ ’ as said in Ed’s somewhat clinical, if accurate, terms.

Fortunately, as Oswald has recently discovered, _obfuscation_ can be interpreted rather liberally.

So, he sets thoughts of the future aside for the moment and picks up his glass of wine. “Well, now _is_ later,” he says, levelling a look at Ed across the table he’d had brought in for precisely this purpose – well, this _and_ other purposes, but those, unfortunately, fall under the category of _future_ as well. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”

To his credit, Ed continues stabbing his fork at the salad in front of him as nonchalantly as ever. “I’ve got a new lead on the whereabouts of an old friend of ours,” he says, and Oswald appreciates and despises the subterfuge all at once. It’s necessary, he knows, just as much as the dread _agreement_ is necessary, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Nothing concrete, of course, but I thought it was worth at least cursory attention. I’ll deal with it after the staffers have gone. That is, unless you… require my presence here.”

Oswald takes a sip of his wine and bites back the answer he wants to give; the words as well as the sugary tone that accompanies them tell him all he needs to know about Ed’s opinion of his earlier trick.

Still, two can play at that game.

“You are, of course, free to come and go as you please, my dear friend. In fact, if you wished, I could come with you,” Oswald replies with a smile – which only grows wider as Ed’s fork comes to a standstill, hovering above his plate.

The thrill of victory, however, only lasts for a moment, because Ed replies with a curt, “Nothing would please me more.” – and Oswald has to set his glass of wine back on the table to hide just how badly his hand is shaking.

It’s just his luck – well, their combined luck, technically – that just as he opens his mouth to offer a reply that is no longer shrouded by any kind of innuendo, however thinly applied, there’s a knock at the door.

So, instead of saying what he’d planned to, Oswald yells, “What is it?” in a manner that is perhaps unkind, but he finds that, at the moment, he doesn’t really care.

Ed, however, apparently seems to, since the look he gives him while setting the fork down tells Oswald just how much he disapproves better than any words ever could. Then again, whether the object of disapproval is Oswald himself or – as he suspects is the more likely case – the person at the door is anyone’s guess.

As if on cue, the door opens. “Mr. Cobblepot, sir?” the man – _Otto_ , a part of Oswald’s mind supplies, one of the new volunteers he’d been introduced to in the morning – standing behind it says cautiously before noticing Oswald is not alone. “Oh. Mr. Nygma. Thank heavens.”

Oswald can’t help rolling his eyes at this point. “Yes, we have determined that it is, in fact, us in the room. _Why_ are you interrupting lunch, Otto?”

As pleased as Otto looks about the fact that Oswald knows his name, a look of abject terror quickly replaces it.

Good.

“I-I’m…” Otto says, and quietly swears under his breath. “I-I’m very sorry, Mr. Cobblepot.”

Oswald waves the apology off. “What is it, then?” he asks again, this time making sure to add a note of compassion to his tone. A quick glance across the table reveals Ed watching the man at the door like a hawk staring at unassuming prey.

Otto, for his part, manages to keep his quivering to a minimum. “I-it’s just that there is this question the guys downstairs had for Mr. Nygma about the font size of the new–“

“– campaign posters. Yes, I am well aware,” Ed finishes.

Otto falls silent, wringing his hands as the words die in his throat. “Y-yes,” he manages after a moment, staring at Ed with wide eyes. “They… they said Mr. Nygma – that _you_ – would be upstairs. Here. With–“ A look in Oswald’s direction, somewhat panicked this time– “with _you_ , sir.”

A part of Oswald almost feels sorry for the poor man.

Almost.

The other, majority-holding part of him, however, is happy to hand off the remainder of the inane conversation off to Ed.

And all of him is glad that this notion does not, apparently, need to be voiced, because Ed sighs and pushes his chair back to stand up. “Go back downstairs, Otto. I will deal with the issue momentarily,” he replies, voice as even and as professional as ever.

Otto visibly sags with relief and attempts to trot off before returning just as quickly. “Forgot the door,” he says sheepishly. A pointed look from Oswald, and the door closes.

The moment, however, has been irreparably ruined.

“I suppose you’ll have to go, then,” Oswald says, not even bothering to hide his discontent. “Duty calls.”

That the existence of said _duty_ is his doing is, honestly, irrelevant.

“I’m afraid so,” Ed replies, the disappointment in his voice a perfect mirror to Oswald’s. “I’ll see you later.”

“Do fire Otto for me, will you?”

And, despite himself, Oswald finds that the goodbye kiss– however brief – he receives in lieu of a verbal response more than makes up for the lingering sting of dissatisfaction from Otto’s foolish interruption.

 

***

 

The lead, as it turns out, leads – and isn’t it just delightful? – to a warehouse on the edge of the city. Although the distinctive array of smells wafting from the nearby Gotham River is anything but pleasant, the lingering rays of the sunset somewhere far above the sprawling cityscape are lovely as always, a rare sight though they may be.

Ed makes a mental note to add a few environmentally-oriented bullet points to the ever-growing list of campaign promises in Oswald’s ledger.

Speaking of.

“Ready to go?” Oswald asks beside him, eyeing the dilapidated warehouse with distaste. “We have a dinner reservation at nine, you know.”

Ed knows – and doesn’t reply that _he’d_ been the one to make the reservation in the first place. Instead, he nods, and steps out of the car.

Better to get this over with quickly.

After another month of chasing after ghosts (for the lack of a better term) and constant disappointments as each lead ended up a dead-end, the whole pursuit has started to feel futile at best and mad at worst.

Aside from Hugo Strange being a rather large possible threat to Oswald’s campaign – how can Oswald, after all, continue a campaign founded on demanding righteous and swift eradication of the abominations that crawled out of Indian Hill when it was cracked open like a sick, putrid egg, when it comes to light that he could be, technically, considered _one of_ said abominations? – there is also the distinct possibility that Ed’s reoccurring brushes with matters unscientific are completely unrelated to anything affiliated with Strange.

There is, however, _also_ the distinct possibility that Strange knows, if not all then at least some of, the answers to the questions Ed still has to force himself to ask, all regarding the strange dream-visions that have plagued him. Especially now that, he is increasingly baffled to find, they have decreased in scope and frequency – in fact, he cannot clearly recall the last time he’d had one.

A part of him wants to put the matter to rest entirely, to give up this fruitless endeavor for answers and relinquish the space in the back of his mind reserved for it in favor of other, undoubtedly more pleasant thoughts.

Said part is, however, one that he will continue to leave unacknowledged.

Which is why he walks, if slowly, towards the warehouse. The .22 caliber pistol tucked inside a holster in the lining of his jacket provides a comfort, as does Oswald’s presence at his side – and the semi-automatic rifle currently nestled in his arms.

One can never be too careful, after all.

 

***

 

In Oswald’s humble opinion, the entire quest to find and/or capture Hugo Strange has been less than optimal, both in scope and in timing. This is, of course, not to say that he will ever voice this opinion; it’s important to Ed, and thus, important to him.

Still, the point remains – while this search has provided ample opportunities to spend time alone with Ed, it has also proved to be a disappointment.

To his great surprise, and, as revealed by a quick glance, to Ed’s as well, however, their luck seems to have turned – because, standing in the middle of the empty warehouse, wearing a shark-like grin and a white lab-coat over an expensive Italian suit, is Hugo Strange himself.

Well, then.

Oswald’s hand is on his gun before the thought fully registers.

Beside him, Ed is completely silent, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar.

“Gentlemen,” Strange says, clasping his hands behind his back. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

Oswald barely manages to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for a man with _two_ guns pointed at his chest, Strange,” he replies, hoping Ed will get the hint.

Fortunately, he does. “I have some questions,” Ed says, reaching for the pistol tucked in his jacket. “And I want answers. You understand, of course.”

Strange’s smile grows wider at that. “Of course. Ask away, Mr. Nygma. However, I would like to also let you know that I have taken security precautions of my own. You understand, of course.”

Ed takes a shaky breath; whether from anger or distress, remains uncertain.

“We don’t have to do this,” Oswald finds himself saying, quietly so that Strange – hopefully – doesn’t hear. “I can just shoot him now, and we’ll be done with it.”

“A kind offer,” Ed mutters back, “but an unnecessary one. I’ll be fine.” Raising his voice to audible levels, he addresses Strange and, without going into specific detail, asks about the dream-visions.

Strange’s reply is a peal of laughter.

Oswald’s grip on the gun tightens as he clears his throat pointedly.

Strange stops laughing. “Indeed?” he asks, and his condescension is almost palpable.

“Indeed,” Oswald replies in Ed’s stead, seeing as he’s currently opening and closing his mouth, no words coming out. “Now tell us what the hell you did to him.”

“I,” says Strange, “did nothing. From what he just said, I’d say the credit is his own, Mr. Cobblepot. In fact, I’d recommend extensive psychotherapy – or perhaps an MRI.”

Oswald balks at that.

Ed, however, takes a sharp breath. “Of course,” he mutters to himself, so quiet that Oswald doesn’t almost hear it. “Focal seizures.”

Almost.

“Ed?” Oswald asks, acutely aware of how small his voice sounds in the empty warehouse.

Strange looks on, that stupid smirk still on his face.

“Of course,” Ed repeats quietly.

Well, then.

“Fix it,” Oswald demands, stepping forward and aiming the gun at Strange’s heart. “Fix it, or I will kill you right here, right now.”

Strange’s smile doesn’t waver for a moment. “I’m afraid I cannot, Mr. Cobblepot. Do you know what the term ‘idiopathic’ means?”

Oswald responds by taking another step.

“It means ‘without a discernible cause’, Oswald,” Ed says from somewhere behind him. A moment later, Ed’s hand is on his shoulder. “Even if he tried, and I doubt he would, there’s nothing _he_ can do.”

The hiss of anger that escapes him is reverberated in the empty room, bouncing off the walls with abandon.

 _There’s nothing he can do_ – how appropriate a way to phrase it.

“One more question before we part ways once more, Mr. Strange,” Ed says, his hand still gripping Oswald’s shoulder. “Why let us go?”

“The decision was not mine, Mr. Nygma. And, please, call me Professor Strange.”

The way Ed’s fingers tighten on his shoulder tells Oswald all he needs to know about Ed’s opinion on _that_. “Whose decision was it, then?” he asks, and Strange barks another laugh.

“I’m afraid you’ve already asked your ‘one more question’, Mr. Nygma. Farewell,” is the reply. At the sound of Ed cocking his gun, Strange stills for a moment. “I must, again, remind you that I have precautions in place. If I were you, I’d walk away. Unless you want to see Mr. Cobblepot perform a miracle and transform from a flightless bird to a carinate one, of course.”

Oswald’s lip curls. “I’ll show you a flightless–”

“Oswald,” Ed says quietly, close enough that Oswald can feel his breath on the back of his neck. “Stop. Let him go.”

They’ll have words about _that_ later, but, Oswald has to, however begrudgingly, concede.

Strange leaves quickly after that.

 

 

***

 

For once in his life, Ed has more answers than questions – at least when it comes to his recent experience of precognizant events. Which, as it turns out, were not precognizant at all. Or, at least, not provably so.

Before meeting with Strange, he’d had three different working theories on what had caused said experiences, but now, only one remains. And, best – or perhaps worst, depending on perspective – of all, the explanation is so simple, it’s no wonder he’d overlooked it himself.

Because in making his insinuations, Strange had hit the mark, perhaps far more accurately than he could’ve known. He had, however, been completely wrong on one count: the events were not idiopathic. Not at all.

And their cause, albeit now in a more corporeal form than he had been at the time, is sitting on the other side of the most coveted table at Gotham City’s most exclusive seafood restaurant, looking at him worriedly.

“Ed? Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, and Ed can’t help but smile.

“Better than ever.”

Oswald, for his part, does not appear quite as convinced. “You’re certain? I could get an MRI scheduled for you, just in case.”

The concern in his voice is heartwarming, honestly. So, despite the agreement and the fact they’re out in public, Ed reaches across the table and takes his hand.

“For the hundredth time, Oswald, everything is fine. Great, even.”

This seems to placate him, although the hint of worry doesn’t quite disappear.

“Actually,” Oswald says after a moment has passed, “there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now.”

“Oh?” Ed replies, mainly because he doesn’t know what else to say – and isn’t that a surprise?

Oswald takes a deep breath. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, and I know it will mean a lot of changes, but… Now is as good a time as any, and I thought this matter should be addressed before the election.”

Ed has a feeling of just what the ‘something’ might be, but then again… who knows?

Oswald, meanwhile, has let go of his hand to grab his glass of wine and down it. “Ed,” he says once the glass is returned to its previous position on the table, “will you do me the honor of–”

“Yes,” Ed replies before the sentence is even finished.

Oswald blinks, once, twice. “You didn’t let me finish the question.” He is, however, smiling.

Ed laughs, the sound trilling pleasantly in the air between them. “You don’t have to. _Anything_ , you know that.”

“So you’ll be my chief of staff once I take the mayor’s office?” Oswald asks, the note of happiness – if tinged with a hint of caution – radiating from the words almost tangible.

Wait.

“Oh,” Ed says once the realization hits. At this point, he’s starting to get tired of being wrong.

Oswald’s smile dims somewhat. “You don’t seem pleased.”

That’s one way to put it.

“It’s not that,” Ed says instead. Not about that at all. “What about the conflict of interest?”

Oswald waves his hand in dismissal. “I don’t care. You know there’s no one I’d trust more for the job than you.”

A waiter materializes with their appetizers – a variation on scallops for Ed and salmon tartare for Oswald – seemingly out of thin air. On any other night, the interruption would’ve been displeasing, but tonight it’s a godsend, a brief reprieve in which he can gather his thoughts.

It’s obvious Oswald has thought about it, perhaps even taken the time to weigh the pros and cons. It would mean the continuation of the agreement, of sneaking around like teenagers for who knows how long – at best.

In a worst-case scenario, continued involvement under the circumstances could mean legal repercussions.

And yet.

And yet, Oswald seems willing to take the risk – or, at least, seems willing to ignore it. Knowing him, the motivation is more likely the latter than the former.

In the end, Ed is being offered a position of real power – of considerable influence both in city matters in the eyes of regular citizens and, in the eyes of those who are aware of Oswald’s role in Gotham’s underworld, the position of his right hand.

The answer is clear as day.

So, he takes a deep breath, looks into Oswald’s expectant eyes and asks, “Are you certain? What about the agreement?”

Oswald smiles, soft as can be. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t certain, Ed. I happen to think you’re worth it; the rest of the world should know it, too. As for the agreement… I think you’ll agree with me when I say that the law can be quite flexible in Gotham.”

Well. When put like that…

“Yes, then,” Ed says, “I happily accept.”

Oswald’s responding grin is brighter than sunlight.

“Speaking of the flexibility of law,” Ed continues, “How do you feel about alexandrite?”

“The… gemstone?” Oswald frowns. “I have no particular opinions. Why?”

“I’ve heard the Gotham Museum will soon be receiving a guest exhibition with a rather lovely, if minor, piece,” Ed replies, nonchalantly taking a sip of his wine, “once rumored to have been part of Russia’s Imperial treasury. It would certainly be unfortunate if it were somehow misplaced during transportation… onto the mantlepiece in our library.”

Oswald’s eyes widen as the words sink in. Then, he smiles. “Unfortunate, indeed.”

“I thought so, too,” Ed replies, a matching smile on his face.

There’s planning to do. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


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